


Rapture (1/3)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-15
Updated: 2001-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: See story parts for details.





	Rapture (1/3)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Rapture 1 - I left my head in San Francisco by Wombat

Rapture 1 - I left my head in San Francisco  
by Wombat  
RATING: PG-13  
PAIRING: Mulder/Methos  
FEEDBACK:   
WEBSITE: http://dialspace.dial.pipex.com/town/drive/xsi35/warning.html  
DISTRIBUTION: The more the merrier, but ask first.  
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine, but I'm not getting paid, and that has to count for something.  
The beta reader roll of honour on this chapter includes, in kinda alphabetical order, Allcro, Andy vonBruns, Claire, Helen Peterson and J Bickford. Thanks for all your help, guys. I wouldn't be here without you.  
SUMMARY: Two murders bring back some old memories for Mulder.

* * *

Rapture 1 - I left my head in San Francisco

Early Spring, somewhere in the Mediterranean

It was evening. Usually the light from the slit windows of the simple chapel barely lifted the warm gloom, but today the red stone of the walls glowed softly with the light of a hundred candles. Giles de Rais knelt before the altar in silence. It had become his habit to hold vigil here, especially before an undertaking as great as that which faced him now. The weight of his armour was uncomfortable, but he had always borne it before. On the altar before him his sword lay sheathed and waiting. Giles breathed deeply. He loved this place, where he could be alone with his God. His soul dwelt here, on the altar with his sword. He loved the timeless scent of the candles, of the polish used on the wooden benches, of the cool stone. Distantly he heard the soft sounds of the Mediterranean evening outside: the cries of the gulls, the hooves of the horses restless in their stables in the courtyard below. Above him slow bells rang the seventh hour and Giles raised his dark, lined face up in silent prayer. 

'Bless this Thy servant, Lord. Strengthen his sword arm in Thy service. Let his shield hold against Thy foes. Let him prevail against the infidel and the corrupters of Thy truth. Let all Thy foes be scattered and destroyed. By Thy grace, grant us victory in the Holy Land. By Thy grace, grant us the holy city of Jerusalem...' The chapel door behind him creaked open softly and Giles sighed. He had indulged himself long enough, if the worship of the Lord could be called an indulgence. Rising stiffly from his knees, he turned to the door and to the darkly robed knight who waited there for him in the shadows.

'What is it, Richard?'

'Forgive me for disturbing your prayer, Grand Master.'

Giles waved the apology aside. 'Speak your message. What news?'

'We've secured the satellite link with Geneva, my lord. The electronic fund transfer is scheduled to take place this evening, as soon as we have confirmation.'

Giles nodded as he left the chapel with the other. They walked through an ancient vaulted hallway, side by side.

'And the rest of the arrangements for the exchange?'

'All in place, my lord. Do you think it is wise to put our trust in the Russians?'

'It is the Lord that we place our trust in. Have faith, Richard. These will be glorious days indeed.'

'Yes, lord.'

'Has that call about our other concern come through from America yet?'

'Not yet, my lord. Not since Anne's report of a possible source of information two days ago. She'll call as soon as they have anything more.'

'It's taking longer to find him than I anticipated,' Giles mused.

The other knight nodded. 'He's hidden for a long time, lord. But there have been rumours that he's back in the game now. We'll find him.'

'Oh, we'll find him. The time has come for him to be found.'

***

Giles was eating alone in his chambers when a light tap on the door again disturbed his thoughts. 'What is it, Richard?' he asked, as the younger knight entered and bowed.

'Grand Master, there's news from New York.'

'Does Anne have his name?'

'No, my lord. But we have a date and a place.'

'That being?'

'Maine, in the United States of America. 1979. A community of godless degenerates. It is a possibility, nothing more. But a strong possibility, nonetheless.'

Giles nodded. His face remained emotionless. 'Only seventeen years ago. Then he may still be using the same identity. God has smiled on our endeavours, Richard.'

'Anne says that she'll continue the investigations. There'll be police records. She'll find others who were there.'

'Godless degenerates, you say?'

Richard nodded. 'Yes, lord.'

'Then instruct Anne to be thorough in her search for the truth. When there is more news, find me. We'll decide how to handle the matter then.'

Richard paused, then said, too eagerly, 'Do you want me to go to America, lord? To aid Anne?'

Giles smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. 'I will consider it, Richard. I know you grow weary of guarding my old bones.'

'No... never that, lord,' Richard whispered, with the sudden fear of one who realises that he has unwittingly crossed a dangerous line.

Giles turned to look out of his window, over the sea below.

'Hard for a warrior when his duty forces him to stay behind, while others go out into the world to battle.'

'To serve you, and G..God, is all I ask, Grand Master,' Richard whispered. His face was pale.

'But God should come first. Never forget that.'

'No, Grand Master. N..never. Never.'

'Sometimes you let your enthusiasms run away with you, Richard,' Giles continued mildly. 'It would be unfortunate if Methos were to be slain before his appointed time. Unfortunate for both of us.' No need to remind Richard of the other times his enthusiasms had run away with him or of the unfortunate consequences then.

'I would be careful, Grand Master,' Richard protested in a whisper.

Giles sighed. 'I know that you would try, child. More than any of the others, you are like a son to me.'

'I would rather d..die than disappoint you, lord.'

'Then be patient,' Giles said, sternly but gently. 'This is a delicate time. Many of our plans are coming to fruition only now, after centuries of waiting. I will ask Anne if she has a use for you. We shall see.'

Richard bowed low, recovering a little of his composure.

'I'll do as you wish, Grand Master. Whatever you command. Anything.'

'Just be patient, Richard,' Giles chided again, but with a trace of satisfaction beneath his words. Well trained, this one. 'The last battle will be soon enough. The other three all have their tasks, but you will be the one to lead my horsemen.'

He turned away from the window, to face his companion again. 'Now, the other matter. How goes the exchange?'

'Julian and Georgia will send w..word this evening,' Richard said eagerly, glad to be on safer ground again. 'When they do we will make the first half of the payment. They'll return to Tbilisi by helicopter and take a commerical flight back to Constantinople tonight. The Russian will be there and they will complete the exchange then.'

'Good. Good. All to plan.' Giles de Rais allowed himself to smile grimly. Eight centuries of waiting, of hiding, over at last. 'Then the last, great days are finally upon us.'

* * *

The Same Evening - Somewhere near the Turkish/Iraqi border.

The village was of a kind that had hardly changed in a thousand or two thousand years. It had no name, or at least no name that mattered. The mountains it was nestled in were grim and bleak. The air was very cold and a thickening mist rose from a wild and icy stream that tumbled down through the rocks. The village itself was little more than a cluster of low, dark tents, animal pens and mud brick huts, most roofed with weathered planking or corrugated iron. The iron, and a few empty fertiliser bags piled under a stone, were almost the only signs that this was the twentieth century, and not the tenth. No smoke rose above the village, although it had snowed lightly the night before and the cold was bitter. The distant chattering of a helicopter echoed through the valley, but there was no-one left to hear it except the sheep huddled in the pens, milling restlessly and bleating in sleepy panic. But as the helicopter descended, the downdraft from its rotor blades blew the light covering of snow from still shapes that lay silent on the hard ground. Georgia de Milly clung tightly to the rail at the side of the helicopter and made ready to alight. The helicopter did not land, but stayed hovering just a foot or so above the ground. A good pilot, Georgia thought, with the winds in these mountains.

The Russian Army Major beside her was shouting: '...biohazard suits just... precaution... virus has a short lifespan... death of the host...'

She nodded to show that she understood, and she did, they had gone through this many times before. She was in no danger, of course, but she had put the awkward suit on for the sake of appearances. The Russian jumped out and held his hand to her, and she stepped lightly down. Julian followed clumsily. It had been hard for them to find a biohazard suit that had fitted him. In the end they had taken the suit belonging to the Russian's big, silent bodyguard and left him behind. The helicopter was army, but the bodyguard was not. The Mafia, or whatever they called themselves here, were running this show. Absently she wondered how just much they had paid the Major for this betrayal. They hurried, bent down, until they were far enough away from the noise and the draft of the helicopter. The Major turned then and waved the helicopter away.

'He can't land here,' he explained. His voice was distorted by the suit. 'Too dangerous.'

'When will he return?' Georgia asked. Now the noise of the helicopter had faded, it was the rustle of the suit that filled her ears.

'I'll radio him when you've seen enough.'

Georgia nodded, and knelt down at the side of one of the snow covered mounds. She felt rather than heard her strong, silent Julian moving to stand behind her. Gently, she brushed the snow away with her gloved hand. A woman. No, a girl, really. Her hair tied back under a black scarf, her dark eyes open, staring at nothing. There was no pain on her face, just a look of faint surprise.

'She was feeding her chickens when she died,' Georgia said. She raised the woman's cold, tight hand and pried the fingers open. A trickle of grain fell out of the cold palm onto the snow.

'The virus acts very quickly,' the Major said. 'Once it enters the system, death can be expected in around eight hours. It breeds first in the upper respiratory tract and the nasal passages. It begins by producing the same symptoms as a mild cold or an allergy. Coughing and sneezing. This is the time when the risk of passing on the infection is greatest. Then the virus undergoes a mutation and enters the bloodstream. As it reproduces it releases a toxin that builds unnoticed until it reaches a critical level. The only symptom is a little tiredness, right up until the moment when the heart muscle is paralysed by the toxin. Death is instantaneous at that point.'

'And the infection is airborne?'

'Yes. The virus can survive for up to twelve hours outside the human body without finding a new host.'

Georgia nodded absently and closed the woman's sightless eyes, as well as she was able to with the thick gloves.

'Why did your people create such a thing?' she asked curiously. 'Surely this is too dangerous to be used as a weapon?'

The Major shrugged. 'It was created by accident and kept for research purposes. The stocks should have been destroyed but with the troubles it was overlooked.'

Georgia nodded. 'Do you care what we are going to use the virus for if we buy it?' she asked.

The man's face grew guarded, as far as she could see behind the mask. 'But you want it for research too, of course,' he said, too quickly, too nervously. 'You know it would be suicide, to release this into the populace?'

'Oh yes,' Georgia said. 'No-one would escape.' She looked away, up into the hills. 'Eight hours incubation time and no visible symptoms. Here it doesn't matter. There is nothing within twenty miles in any direction and the passes were sealed so the virus couldn't be spread to other villages. The wind is up into the mountains, away from the other settlements.'

'Your people planned it very well,' Georgia said, with a pleased little smile.

The Major shook his head. Desperation underlaid his voice. 'No. You don't understand. Here it doesn't matter. But if it were to be released in a place like Moscow, or New York, or Tokyo...'

Georgia nodded. 'We've carried out our own projections. There would be no place, anywhere in the world, that would be safe. If a drop was released in Times Square it would spread to the taxi drivers, to the commuters, to the businessmen, to the airports, to other cities, to other countries. And nobody would know, until people started dying around them. No immunity, no cure, no time to contain it. It would be the end of the world.'

'The end of the world,' the Major agreed, soberly. Relieved that she understood.

'Will these deaths be noticed?'

'They will blame Iraq,' the Major said with a shrug. 'But with the passes down it will be weeks before this place is even found.'

Georgia nodded absently. 'We've seen enough,' she said. 'We're ready to go now.'

'I'll radio for the helicopter.'

******

Two months later, San Francisco, USA

The apartment was on a street high above San Francisco Bay. The area had seen better days, but there was a friendly feeling about it. The painted boards of the houses were pleasantly weathered, and most of the tiny front gardens seemed well cared for. This was a street where children were not afraid to play outside, at least during the day; where cats warily eyed each other from their places in the sun. Far below, the bay glittered under the warm spring sun. You could imagine living there, buying your Sunday morning newspaper in the store on the corner. A quiet neighbourhood, but today there were police cars parked up on the pavement, radios crackling, doors slamming. As Mulder and Scully pulled up, an ambulance drew to a halt behind them. A little way back down the street, a small group of locals had gathered, silent, shocked and disbelieving. Scully knew the look on their faces; this couldn't happen here. *Yeah, right,* Scully thought to herself. Wherever a murder happened, it was always someone's neighbourhood.

The apartment was like the street: not quite what it had been, but still someone's home. Every windowsill in the cramped front room was lined with potted plants. A battered sofa faced the window, covered with a badly tie-dyed throw, lumpy cushions, crumbs and cat hairs. A few empty Chinese takeout cartons stood on the low table in front of the sofa. The little table was piled high with papers and as she walked past, Scully noticed a leaflet about a 'Save The Dolphin' protest walk, a flyer asking for money for a pet sanctuary, a brochure advertising cheap singles holidays, a pair of garish plastic earrings. The walls were painted orange, making the rooms seem smaller. They were hung with posters, batik art and lopsided macrame.

Scully ducked to one side to avoid the police photographer who was immortalising the sofa on film. She had had an aunt who had lived alone in an apartment much like this one. For Scully's aunt, the days of love, peace and flower power had never ended. She would have found a kindred spirit in the woman who had lived in this apartment. Here was another place that was filled with the sense of cats and kindness, of childlessness and of a life spent sadly clinging to the past. It touched Scully strangely and filled her with a rising sadness as she walked through to the bedroom with her partner. Angrily she pushed the feeling back. This was work. She couldn't let it get to her. In the background the police radios barked and hissed. Mulder flicked his authorisation at the man on the door to the bedroom.

'Agents Mulder and Scully. FBI.'

The man stepped aside. He was local police, Scully thought, and he looked pale. That was a bad sign. Police in a city as big as this usually acted as if they'd seen it all. Often they had.

'Where's the body, officer?' Mulder asked as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

'Bedroom and bathroom, Agent Mulder.'

'The bedroom and the bathroom?' Scully asked. 'Are there two bodies?'

'Just the one, ma'am. See for yourself.' The bedroom had the old familiar stink of the murder scene; blood and worse. Scully felt the acid rise in her stomach. The body was a woman's body, an obese, middle-aged woman. An obese middle aged woman without a head. Scully swallowed and pulled her tape recorder out of her bag as Mulder slowly opened the bathroom door. The head lay in the sink, facing them. The eyes were tightly closed, the expression almost peaceful. The doors of the cabinet above the sink were flung open, revealing shelves crammed with department store samples and old make-up.

'Who found her?' Scully asked the man on the door.

'Neighbours hadn't seen her for a couple of days, so someone came to the window to see if she was ok, ma'am.'

'Are there any suspects?'

'Not yet, ma'am. We're still trying to find out whether she had any family or close friends. It doesn't seem like it.'

Scully nodded. 'Let me know if they find anything.'

She turned back to Mulder, who was still standing looking at the head. He raised his gloved hands slowly to the doors of the bathroom cabinet, then swung them shut. The doors were mirrored: Mulder's own pale face was reflected back at the two agents. And over it the words, written in blood:

'COME AND SEE.'

'She was beheaded with a single stroke,' Scully said. They were sitting in the rental car, drinking coffee outside a corner store on the way to the airport. It was dark and starting to rain. 'Whoever killed Naomi Redburg must have used an incredible amount of strength.'

Mulder nodded.

She continued: 'The weapon was probably a sword of some sort. It would have to have been razor sharp and probably fairly heavy. Any ideas on what 'come and see' meant?' Mulder nodded absently again, and Scully looked at him in irritation. 'You're not listening. What is it with you today, Mulder?'

Mulder put his coffee down and shook his head, as if to wake himself. 'I'm sorry, Scully. It was just... she was someone I knew from a long time ago. It must be seventeen or eighteen years now.'

He caught Scully's look of disbelief. 'Mulder, why didn't you tell me?'

'I didn't know myself until I saw the head. She called herself something different.'

'Mulder, I'm sorry...' Scully began.

Mulder shook his head. 'I hardly knew her. It was just a shock.'

'Did you tell the detectives?'

'There's not much too tell. I only knew her for two or three weeks.'

'Old girlfriend?' Scully asked. She couldn't keep a note of incredulity out of her voice.

Mulder shook his head. 'She didn't have any boyfriends. She didn't have any enemies. She was just... nice. Harmless. I didn't even notice her that much. She was just around.'

'Around where?'

Mulder shifted evasively. 'Just around, Scully.'

He caught Scully's glance. 'Eighteen years ago would have been around the time you went to Oxford, right?' Scully asked.

'You're not going to drop this, are you Scully?'

'No, Mulder.'

'Look, Scully, just drop it, OK?'

Scully sighed. 'C'mon, Mulder. How bad could it have been? If it's anything that could have the slightest bearing on the case you really need to tell me about it.'

'You really aren't going to drop this, are you.'

'No. And we've got another two hours to wait before we check in at the airport. You may as well just get it over with now.'

Mulder sighed. 'Ok, Scully. But you're buying the next coffee.'

'Sure,' Scully shrugged. She would have been willing to go up to a three course meal with wine thrown in to hear this one.

'I spent part of the summer of '79 in an alternative community in the woods in Maine.' *Woo! Jackpot!* Scully thought to herself.

She said: 'I'm sorry, Mulder? You did what?'

'I spent part of the summer...'

'I heard the first time. You mean, some kind of new age place?'

'Pretty much. Tents in the woods, vegetarian food...'

'Pot? Free love?'

'Well, that's what I hoped.'

'And?'

'No such luck. It was a nightmare, Scully. They called it Rivendell.'

'Rivendell? Tell me you're joking.'

'I'm afraid not.'

'But you stayed there? Why didn't you just get the first bus back home?'

'At first I didn't want it to seem as though I was... you know, wimping out. Then I made friends with one of the other guys there. After a couple of weeks we got sick of it and took off for Vermont together.'

'And Naomi was there?'

Mulder nodded. 'She was one of the older people there. One of the sixties people.'

'And she called herself by another name?'

'Sunflower.'

'I don't understand why you went there in the first place.'

'I have a second cousin. Herbert Jenks. He was taking off with his girlfriend to this place. She was a wannabe new-age hippy - you know, aromatherapy, save the dolphins, harmonic convergence... She'd heard of this place and she talked Herb into taking her. I was feeling kind of rebellious. I was heading for England in the autumn and my father was going on at me to get a summer job and earn some money. So I tagged along with Herb and Saffron instead. I knew it was a mistake after we'd gotten three miles down the road.'

'Tell me more, Mulder.'

'Saffron sang bad folk songs all the way up. She had a thin, whiny voice that set my teeth on edge. I think even Herb got sick of it. He was only hanging on because he thought she'd sleep with him when they got there.'

'Did she?'

'Uh-uh. She went for this guy called Jacques who could play the guitar. As far as I know Herb spent the summer sulking and getting stoned.'

'And eating lentils.' Scully commented.

'Maybe lentils taste better when you're high on grass,' Mulder mused. 'It's hard to imagine them tasting any worse.'

'So the summer was a disaster.'

Mulder shook his head and smiled distantly. 'Best summer I've ever spent.'

'I don't understand.'

'Like I said, I made friends with one of the other guys there. He was great. He must have been four or five years older than me, but he knew so much stuff. I mean languages, literature, philosophy... everything. He was smart and funny and laid back... All my life I'd been trying to please other people and here was this guy who just did his own thing and didn't care what anyone else thought. That was kind of a revelation. And he really liked me. I mean, this was someone I connected with, straight away.'

Scully nodded. 'Sounds like you got pretty close.'

'Yeah. We stuck around camp for a couple of weeks then I had a bad argument with Herb and we decided to head off to Vermont together to look for flying saucers.'

'Find any?' Scully asked, with a little smile.

'No, but it didn't matter that much at the time. We camped in the woods, went fishing together... We stayed in the woods for days at a time. We climbed mountains and spent the night up there watching the sky and just talking. It was incredible, Scully. Then every few days we'd come out of the wilds and find some diner where they sold burgers. I can still remember how good those burgers tasted...'

'Sounds idyllic.'

'It was the first time I can remember since I was twelve years old that I was unconditionally happy. I didn't ever want that summer to end.'

Scully glanced at his face, and saw it glowing with the memory. She sighed, a little enviously. 'That's a sweet story, Mulder. What was your friend's name?'

'Adam. Adam Pierson.' His face clouded a little. 'We lost touch at the end of the summer. I haven't seen him since.'

* * *

'Mac, did you ever hear of an immortal called Naomi Redburg?' Joe Dawson asked, looking up from his week-old USA Today.

'No. I don't know the name, at least,' Duncan called from the kitchen area of the barge. 'Why d'you ask?'

'There's an article here about a mysterious beheading in San Francisco. Just a couple of lines. "A single woman living in a San Francisco apartment was found beheaded in her bedroom last week." Whoever it was left the head in the bathroom sink.'

'It's irresponsible leaving a mess like that,' Duncan growled.

'And you didn't have any record of her?'

'None. If she'd lived in the middle of nowhere I'd understand it, but an untraced immortal in San Francisco... Means someone in the west coast area is really screwing up.'

'When did it happen?'

'This paper's a few days old. Last weekend, I guess.'

'Anything on the immortal that took her head?'

'Nothing there, either.'

'Then it may not have been an immortal,' Duncan pointed out. He sat back down beside Joe, setting down two cups of coffee.

'A common or garden serial killer, you think?'

'We are talking about California, Joe.'

'Yeah. I suppose so... What is it, Mac?'

Duncan had stiffened. 'We've got a visitor.' He moved to his feet, then relaxed as he heard Adam call.

'Mac? You in there?'

'Come on in, Methos. Coffee's on the side.'

Adam entered, shaking the rain from his hair.

'Paris in the springtime? You can keep it,' he muttered. 'It's rained every time I've been here in the spring since they stopped calling the place Lutetia.'

'Every single time?' Duncan asked with a raised eyebrow.

'Well, ok, maybe not every single time. I think the rain held off in 1462 and we had a couple of days in '53 when the sun actually came out.'

'1953?' Joe asked.

'53BC.'

'You were here during the Gallic wars?' Duncan asked, settling back in his chair.

'Yeah. And all I could think about was getting my butt back to Rome where it was warm and dry.'

'We've got central heating now,' Joe commented.

'We had central heating then, Joe.'

'You're in a bad mood this morning,' Duncan said.

'Just the weather getting me down.'

'So it's nothing to do with that lecture you're giving tonight?'

'Hah. Don't remind me. How did I get talked into that one anyway?'

'It's not as if you haven't done it before, Methos.'

'I've done it a lot of times before. That doesn't mean I have to enjoy it.'

He poured himself a coffee and nodded towards Joe's newspaper. 'So, any news from good old Seacouver?'

'Some woman in San Francisco was beheaded,' Joe said. 'A Naomi Redburg. We don't have any record of either her or her killer.'

'Naomi... wait a minute, Naomi Redburg? That name rings a bell. Is there a picture?'

'Only a paragraph. "A 51 year old single woman living in a San Francisco apartment was found beheaded in her bedroom last week. In a gruesome twist, police reported that Naomi Redburg's head had been separated from her body and placed in the bathroom sink Neighbours described her as a woman who kept to herself, and had few friends. She was known to be a supporter of several animal and children's charities. Police say that as yet there is no suspect for the murder."'

'Naomi Redburg...' Adam said slowly. 'Let me think. I knew a woman called Naomi Redburg about eighteen years back. She wasn't an immortal but she would have been about the right age and I could imagine her ending up somewhere like San Francisco. It's probably just a coincidence...'

He let it trail off. Joe sighed. 'I'll try to get you a picture, Adam. If there's any kind of immortal connection we need to look into it.'

'Was she... is she a close friend?' Duncan asked.

'Not really. There were a couple of other immortals she hung out with. Maybe one of them.'

'Who were they?' Joe asked.

'Have you ever run into an immortal called Arch Drake? Pompous little guy with a beard? Made his first fortune about twenty or thirty years ago and he's been living it up ever since?'

'I haven't run into him,' Duncan said. 'Not under that name, at least.'

'I think I've heard of him,' Joe said. 'He's hardly taken any heads. Born somewhere around 1907. He's in the gossip columns a lot doing the playboy millionaire thing.'

'You read the gossip columns, Joe?' Adam asked with a grin.

'Since about 1980 his chronicle has been a mass of newspaper clippings. He made immortal in 1942. He did all the usual. A few months of shock, a decade or two of irresponsibility, followed by the 'what does it all mean' stage. He's on the 'what the hell, may as well sit back and enjoy it' stage now.'

The two immortals nodded.

'The psychology of immortality,' Adam mused. 'I wonder if anyone's written a thesis on it?'

'Feel another degree coming on?' Duncan asked.

'Yeah. It may be time to move on. I've been in Paris a bit too long. My colleagues from the university are starting to say how well preserved I look for a guy in his late thirties. I can get away with another three or four years here at the most.'

'That's a shame,' Joe said.

Adam shrugged. 'Hell, I'll just do what I always do. Come back in twenty years' time and say I'm my kid. Maybe it's time I took medicine again. I could always minor in psychology.'

'Yeah,' Joe agreed, rubbing his shoulder. 'I'd say you could do with a refresher. When did you say you studied medicine last?'

'Heidelberg. 1453. You survived, didn't you?'

'Yeah, but things have kinda moved on since then. You know, anaesthetics, penicillin...'

'Not drilling holes in people's skulls to let the evil spirits out...' Duncan added with a grin.

Adam rolled his eyes. 'Everyone's a critic. Medicine's a tough degree. It takes a lot of commitment. I watch ER. I know these things.'

'So, Arch Drake,' Joe said, steering the conversation back onto course.

'Yeah. I met the guy while he was between the total irresponsibility and what's it all about stages, back in 1979. As far as I can work out he'd spent most of the two previous decades into the free love and drugs scene. He spent some time in London and San Francisco, mostly getting stoned and wearing polyester suits with big collars...'

Duncan winced.

'Been there, huh?' Adam asked innocently.

'You should've seen his sideburns.' Joe said with a grin. 'I'll try and dig up some pictures for you.' Duncan shot him a disgusted look, and Adam's smile grew wicked.

'I'm gonna hold you to that, Joe. But Drake. He wanted to talk to other immortals, to try to find out what was going on, so he set up this sanctuary. I think it was mostly for his student's benefit. Kid was starting to ask the usual questions. Where do we come from, why are we here, yadda yadda yadda.' He shrugged. 'So Drake bought a few square miles of woodland in Maine and got an Native American shaman to consecrate it. Whether that made it holy ground or not I couldn't tell you. Anyway, Drake set up a camp there and said all immortals were welcome, as long as they left their weapons outside. There were five of us there when I stayed, and between ten and twenty mortals at any one time, mostly Jewish kids from New York. The camp was... you know the kind of thing. Everybody was supposed to live in peace and harmony and meditate on their reason for existence.'

'So what were you doing there?' Duncan asked dryly.

'I heard there was a new immortal in Paris who took his time over his kills. He sounded enough like Kronos for me to think it might be a good idea to get out of the jurisdiction for a few months until he went away again. The sanctuary seemed like a good idea at the time.'

'So you left your weapon outside and wore flowers in your hair?'

'I'm sensing a certain amount of cynicism from you, Mac,' Adam said, with an air of injured innocence. 'Why is it so hard for you to believe I might want to be more in touch with my inner self?'

Joe shook his head. Duncan just snorted. Adam grinned.

'Ok, so I kept my sword and no flowers. I did actually give up meat for a while. Thought I'd give the health food thing a try. Then after a while I thought, what's the point? It wasn't like I was going to die of a heart attack or anything. The whole thing got tired pretty fast. I spent a couple of months there before I got bored out of my mind and headed off to Vermont with this kid I met there.'

'Who were the other immortals?'

'A guy who called himself Jacques. I knew him as Jacques Lemarchand back in medieval France. A real creep. He just wanted to take drugs and get laid. There was a woman, Rebecca Kirkwood. She was taken in a fight in Toronto a few years back. Then there was a kid called Max Donnelly, from Boston. He was pretty new. Drake's student. I haven't heard anything about him since.'

'Donnelly was killed a couple of years ago,' Joe said. 'Picked a fight with the wrong guy and got his head taken. I think it was only his second or third time. He kept a pretty low profile. What about the girl you went off with?'

'Not a girl. He called himself Mulder. Fox Mulder. He wasn't an immortal. He was seventeen or eighteen years old. Kind of screwed up but I liked him a lot. He was very intelligent, very intense. Desperately lonely and unhappy. A nice kid.'

Joe said gently, 'It sounds as if you miss him.'

Adam nodded, and the laughter left his eyes. 'Yeah. I miss him. The whole mentor thing... there's as much in it for the mentor as the pupil, maybe more. We got pretty close, but in the end I had to let him go. It was just too dangerous if Kronos was around and hunting me.'

'Did you keep in touch with him?' Joe asked.

'No. He went to university in England, I came back to Paris. I told him I didn't have an address there yet. He sent me a postcard care of the university but I never answered it.'

'Another regret?' Duncan said softly.

'Yeah. Another regret. I wonder what he's doing now?'

* * *

'Ok, Mulder, let's recap.'

'It's not as if we have anything else to do,' Mulder agreed.

'We're investigating sightings of an urban bigfoot in Washington State,' Scully said.

'Finding an ecological niche as an urban scavenger is a common phenomenon with smaller carnivores like raccoons or foxes.'

'And we've uncovered what appears to be an subterranean bigfoot cult living in secret rooms beneath the warehouse of a supermarket that's been closed for a refit.'

'Yeah. That sounds about right.'

'Who captured us when we came here to investigate the mysterious footprints in the freezer room.'

'Can't argue with that. Does your head still hurt?'

'From being clubbed with that frozen turkey leg? What do you think Mulder?'

'Looked pretty painful to me.'

'So now we're sitting lashed together, back to back, slowly freezing to death, in the ice cream and popsicles section.'

'You know, I didn't know they made low-fat creamsicles. Wouldn't that make them milksicles?'

'The local police chief thinks we've headed out into the woods investigate a similar sighting.'

'You think maybe we should have told him where we were?'

'I think it would have been sensible, Mulder,' Scully said, with hardly a quiver in her voice. 'He probably won't start looking for us for a couple of days now.'

'When does this store open?'

'The poster outside said the refit would be finished in May. Another month. Maybe in a week's time someone will come down here to check if the stock's ok. You realise we're probably not going to survive that long, Mulder?'

'Actually, Scully...'

'What is it, Mulder?' Scully asked, in a voice full of foreboding.

'I think we've been put here as a sacrifice to the bigfoot.'

'You think what?'

'A man called Albert Ostman who was reported captured by a bigfoot family in 1924...'

'Cut to the chase, Mulder,' Scully said in a dangerously calm voice.

'Bigfoots are carnivorous, Scully. They store their food in snowdrifts to keep it fresh.'

'So what you're saying...'

'Yes, Scully?'

'Is that we've got to hope and pray that this particular bigfoot is more partial to frozen turkey than half-frozen FBI agent.'

'Judging by the footprints I'd say this one has been coming straight for the popsicles. Must have a sweet tooth.'

'So essentially, we're tied in up a cold storage room, in a supermarket that nobody knows we're visiting, where our frozen bones won't even be found for anything up to a month, waiting to turn into frozen snacks for our friendly neighbourhood carnivorous urban bigfoot.'

'I just can't believe that the security company here has been infiltrated so heavily by bigfoot cultists. I mean, don't they screen those guys?'

'So we're going to either freeze to death, or be ripped to pieces.'

'Actually...'

'What, Mulder?'

'We're probably going to freeze to death *and* be ripped to pieces.'

'Good,' Scully said. Her voice had risen by another couple of notches. 'Great. I'm glad we've cleared that up. So we're tied up in a cold storage room, in a supermarket nobody knows we're visiting, waiting to freeze to death and then be ripped to pieces by the world's first urban bigfoot...'

'I hate to say this, Scully, but your conversation's starting to get a bit repetitive...'

Scully took a deep breath, then another. It didn't seem to help. 'If we get out of here, Mulder, I'm going to rip you to pieces myself,' she muttered.

Both stiffened at a faint, muffled trilling noise. 'Cellphone,' Scully said with sudden renewed urgency.

'What do you think I've been trying to get a hold of for the past half hour?'

'I didn't really want to ask.'

'Got... to... knock it... out of my... coat... pocket! Damn...'

'Could you use an elbow?'

'If you wouldn't mind, Scully... ow!'

'Were those your ribs?' Scully murmured, without the slightest trace of remorse. 'Sorry.'

'That's going to leave a bruise,' Mulder said, in a faintly accusing voice.

'Wait a moment... I can feel the edge... How can you get a signal down here, anyway?'

'Langley fitted it with some kind of Japanese grey import receiver chip.'

'Well you've only got yourself to blame if it microwaves your ear. Hold on... got it!' The phone was jolted out of Mulder's coat pocket onto the floor, where it continued to ring accusingly.

'We're going to have to go over, Scully...'

'What do you mean? No, wait!...'

The two of them toppled slowly over from their perch on top of a stack of Ben and Jerry's boxes.

'Ooof!' Scully groaned as she hit the ground hard.

'Almost got it...,' Mulder said, through gritted teeth. He shuffled around, dragging them both with his bound ankles. He strained his nose towards where the receiver lay. On his third try he managed to flip the receiver plate open.

'Mulder,' he said. 'Sir...'

Scully heard Skinner's voice squawk tinnily and accusingly at Mulder. She couldn't quite make out the words.

'No sir,' Mulder said. 'We're in Washington State. Exactly? We're in a Safeway store in a place called Cascade, sir.'

More squawking.

'Not shopping, sir. We've been tied up by cultists and left as a sacrifice for an urban bigfoot in the warehouse freezer... no sir! Don't hang up!'

Scully closed her eyes and sighed.

'He asked!' Mulder said defensively.

'Just use that nose of yours to dial 911,' Scully said resignedly.

'You know, I got offered a job in the IRS when I left college,' Mulder said.

'Dial the number Mulder.'

'It's at times like this it starts to look like an attractive alternative career.'

'Just dial the damn number, Mulder.'

***

The seats in the waiting area just down the hall from Skinner's office seemed to have been designed to cause the maximum amount of discomfort in the minimum amount of time. Mulder remained standing, while Scully sat and shifted uncomfortably.

'I still don't know how that detective could possibly have heard us from outside the warehouse,' Mulder said eventually.

'Forget the warehouse, Mulder,' Scully said wearily. 'There must have been an air duct or something.'

'I suppose you're right,' Mulder said. He still had a vaguely dissatisfied look on his face. 'What was his name again? I didn't quite catch it. Ericson?'

'Mulder, forget the damn warehouse. The guy probably just didn't want to let on that he had contacts on the inside. There's nothing strange about it.'

'Yeah, I suppose you're right. I'd have asked him but he looked bothered enough with that anthropologist kid hanging around taking notes.'

'So what was that about?'

Mulder shrugged. 'Some kind of research into closed cultures. If he wants closed cultures he should try this place.'

The two of them waited in silence for a while.

'So what does Skinner want us for this time?' Scully asked.

'He wasn't too specific on the phone. Something about the Redburg case.'

'Mulder, he'd understand if you didn't want to take this one. I know there's not much of a personal connection...'

'I want to know what's going on with this, Scully.'

Scully sighed. 'It looks to me as if California just has another random serial killer on the loose, Mulder. I suppose the chances of it having anything to do with your hippy commune are pretty remote.'

'It was not a hippy commune, Scully. It was an alternative community.'

Scully just raised an eyebrow. 'Mulder, it was a hippy commune. You lived in a tent and ate lentils. You tuned in and you dropped out. Why were we called in here, anyway? Serial killings don't rate an X-file.'

'There have been a lot of murders by beheading over the past few years, Scully. Too many for one person to be responsible. They're happening all over the world. There was one in India last month, there's been a series in Russia going back at least three years, two recorded in central Scotland since 1995, twelve in the States, four in Canada... those are just the ones we know about. It's an X-file because beheading is such an unusual way of committing a murder. It's messy and difficult. It takes a lot of strength and a relatively large and heavy blade. There are a whole lot of easier ways to kill someone. There'd have to be a damn good reason for doing it this way, but it's anybody's guess what it is.'

'So what's your best guess? What's behind all this?'

'I don't know. The official theory is that there's some kind of connection with the Russian mafia.'

'But you don't buy it?'

'The victims are chosen too randomly and they're too widespread. A high proportion of them were mercenaries and criminals, but others were blameless people leading ordinary lives. Some are completely untraceable, others have had two or more identities linked to them. One of the bodies found in Scotland was a parish priest. There were three in France found weighted down in the harbour of a burnt out World War II submarine base. One was identified by his dental records as an escaped prisoner from a Romanian mental hospital, for the other two, nothing. A housewife in Toronto, a student in Milan, a traffic cop in Mount Vernon, Illinois...'

'A middle-aged hippy chick in San Francisco. I get the picture, Mulder. But you must admit that there could be an Eastern European connection. Maybe some of the murders are random serial killings, but others could be linked to the Russia Mafia. You said yourself that a high proportion were criminals and mercenaries.'

'There's no empirical evidence linking them to a single organisation.'

'That we know of, Mulder. Suppose there's a criminal group which executes traitors by beheading.'

'You'd think the rest would learn by example pretty quickly, Scully. It usually only takes a couple of executions to keep the rest of the workforce in line. Even a group the size of the US Mafia doesn't kill more than a handful of traitors a year. We're talking about twenty or thirty executions a year every year for the last five years. An organisation with that kind of internal disruption would disintegrate. You'd expect mass defections, leadership struggles, gang warfare. We don't have any record of any criminal society here or in Russia where that's happening. Nobody's going to the police asking for protection, nobody's turning informant. There's nothing.'

'What if the killings aren't internal? What if they're assassinations?'

'That's a possibility, but the victims don't fit the profile. When you pay for an assassination you don't waste your time on small time criminals, especially not with a modus operandi as exotic as this. You go for politicians or senior policemen or businessmen. There are a couple of businessmen we know of who were beheaded but none of them were involved with anything particularly illegal or controversial.'

'Anything else you'd like to tell me?' Scully asked. 'Come on, Mulder. Give me the punch line.'

'Most or all of the victims had other sword wounds on their bodies, most of them partially healed. The injuries were consistent with injuries sustained in a one to one sword fight. The most interesting fact is that in most cases where time of death was known, there was usually simultaneous localised atmospheric electrical activity.'

'Oh please, Mulder.'

'With one or two exceptions none of the victims had any injuries consistent with being bound or manhandled. In a number of cases there were blood traces not belonging to the victim in the vicinity.'

'What about Redburg? There was nothing like that. She was a frightened, middle aged woman who was manhandled, tied up, then beheaded. No electrical activity, no evidence of fighting, no other sword wounds, partially healed or otherwise...'

'Yeah. I know. It doesn't fit the pattern. But there is a pattern, Scully and maybe 95 out of a hundred beheadings fit almost perfectly.'

'So you're suggesting what? That these people come of their own accord to their deaths? That they duel with swords before they die? That's completely irrational, Mulder. Why would a housewife from Toronto willingly participate in a duel to the death?'

Mulder shrugged. 'I've got to admit, it's got me beat. I thought you might have some ideas.'

'What about religion? Could there be some kind of fundamentalist connection?'

'That's the current theory,' Mulder admitted. 'The millennium is bringing some pretty strange groups out into the open. The swords suggest something like the medieval knight orders. They're very popular with the conspiracy theorists at the moment.'

'You should know, Mulder.'

'Come on, Scully. You've seen the books at the airport. The Templars, the Masons, the Holy Grail.'

'On the same shelf as the ones about Hitler being cloned by Aliens and how Nostradamus predicted Baywatch. Strangely enough I usually give them a miss.'

'Yeah. I had you pegged as more of a Jackie Collins fan.'

Scully gave him a sour look. 'Tread carefully, Mulder. By this time tomorrow the whole FBI could know about your little stay in 'Rivendell.''

'Hey, I take it all back...'

'Excuse me, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully?' Both agents looked round in surprise.

'He'll see you now,' Skinner's secretary said, from the doorway. Skinner sat behind the desk, glasses in one hand, wearily rubbing his forehead with the other. Mulder felt a pang of undirected guilt. Whenever Skinner looked this rough it was usually his fault for one reason or another.

'Sir?' Scully asked.

'Sit, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder. It's about the Redburg case.'

'The woman who was beheaded in San Francisco?'

'Yes. There's been another death which Interpol believes is associated. Since you've both been involved with the earlier case I'd like you to pool your information with the Surete and assist with their investigation in an advisory capacity.'

'Who was killed sir?' Mulder asked.

'A man called Archibald Drake was murdered a few days ago in France. He was an American citizen. Same MO, same graffito as in Redburg's bathroom. There's no known connection between the two of them...'

'Yes there is, sir,' Mulder said. His voice sounded sick, even to himself.

'I don't understand, Agent Mulder,' Skinner said. Scully looked at him with concern.

'You knew Drake too, Mulder?'

He nodded. 'I'm sorry sir. I should have mentioned it in my report...'

'Mentioned what, Agent Mulder?' Skinner's voice was suddenly several degrees colder.

'That I knew Redburg.'

'You knew Redburg? You're damn right it should have gone in your report. What the hell do you think you're playing at, Mulder?'

'I knew her in passing, sir, that's all. It was more than seventeen years ago. I wouldn't even have mentioned it except...' He paused, not certain how to continue.

'Except?'

'An Arch Drake was there too. Somehow I don't think the name's that common.'

Skinner shook his head. 'Mulder, you have one minute to explain the connection between these two people.'

'I met them both in 1979, in Maine.'

'Where, Mulder? Summer camp?'

'No, sir. Not exactly. Arch Drake ran a kind of alternative community in the woods.'

'A hippy commune.' Scully added, not altogether helpfully.

'Thanks, Scully,' Mulder muttered under his breath.

Skinner leaned back wearily in his chair. *Why am I not surprised?* his expression said. 'And you lived in this hippy commune, Mulder?'

'I came with some people I knew and stayed about two weeks, sir. Redburg and Drake were both there.'

'At the hippy commune,' Skinner said, without inflection.

'They called it Rivendell, sir,' Scully chimed in brightly. Mulder glared at her.

'Rivendell,' Skinner said. 'I see. Were they particularly close, Agent Mulder?'

'No sir. I had the impression that they hardly knew each other, but as I said, I was only there for a short time.'

'What did you know about Drake, Agent Mulder?'

'Nothing much. He seemed to be in charge. I think he owned the place. I was told that he was wealthy.'

'Drake was an extremely rich man,' Skinner agreed. 'Anything else?'

'He seemed pretty bored by the whole thing, sir. He didn't seem to be particularly serious about it.'

'And why were you there, Agent Mulder?'

Mulder frowned. 'Is that relevant to the case, sir?'

'Just curious, Agent Mulder,' Skinner said. His face was still expressionless, but Mulder was given the discomforting impression that both the AD and Scully were finding the whole conversation extremely amusing.

'I was seventeen, sir. It was the summer before I went to university. I ended up at the camp by accident, stayed for a couple of weeks, hated it and moved on. End of story.'

'You seem rather defensive about the whole thing, Agent Mulder,' Skinner remarked.

'Wouldn't you be, sir?' Scully asked. She earned another glare from Mulder.

'Sir, getting back to Drake...' Mulder said.

Skinner took pity on him. 'Yes. Drake. Did it seem likely to you that he would have kept in contact with Redburg?'

'Not really, sir. They had nothing in common. As I said, they weren't close. I wouldn't have said that they were even friends.'

'Was there anything else strange going on at the camp? Anything that might have pointed to some kind of illegal activity?'

'Some soft drug use, sir. That's about it. Of course if anything was going on I wouldn't have known about it in a couple of weeks.'

Skinner nodded, apparently satisfied. 'At least we can rule out the possibility that the killings are random and unconnected. You'd better try to think back to the time you were there, Mulder, and see if you can remember anything else that might shed some light on this. I need names and possible locations for anyone else who may have been there at the time. I'll set things in motion at this end.'

'It was more than seventeen years ago. It'll take me a while to remember the details, sir,' Mulder said uncertainly.

'It'll be something for you to do on the flight to Paris. You're both leaving tomorrow.'

'Sir, one of the people I knew from the camp went to university in Paris that autumn. There's a possibility that he's still there.'

'The Surete will assist you if it's necessary, Agent Mulder. Make whatever investigations you see fit. Just don't step on any toes doing it.'

'Thank you sir. I'll try to tread carefully.' Skinner's expression clearly said that he'd believe it when he saw it. Back down in the basement office a week's mail waited on Mulder's desk. Mulder gathered the files he'd need for Paris, and that done, flicked through the pile of health insurance offers and invitations to business excellence seminars. There was little of interest, except for a couple of badly photocopied but imaginative conspiracy zine articles. Most of the contacts who sent him the really interesting stuff were too paranoid to make what to them was the obvious mistake of sending it through the US mail to the FBI building in Washington DC. One letter caught his eye, his name and address hand-written in ink on white vellum. He tore it open and sighed as he read the first few lines.

'Renounce thy sin, Fox Mulder, forsake thy corruption and come into the Lord's light. Confess to thy evil and your soul may be saved in the reckoning which is to come...'

Mulder sighed, opened his desk drawer and stuffed the letter into a bulging envelope marked 'Repent!'.

'What's that, Mulder?' Scully asked as she returned with two cups of coffee.

'They want me to repent, Scully,' Mulder said dryly.

'Apparently the world is going to end.'

'Doesn't getting those letters bother you?' Scully asked, sipping her coffee.

'Used to,' Mulder said with a shrug. 'Now it's kind of like the junk mail I keep getting from the Reader's Digest. You know how it is. At first you read through all the attachments and decide whether you want the $500,000 or the $50,000 a year for life and whether you'll go for the holiday or the car if you return it within fourteen days, and you stick the little stickers in their boxes and put it all in the right envelope. Then after you've had three or four of them you think 'what the hell' and bin them as soon as they come through the door. It gets tired.'

Scully frowned. 'I thought you got Langly to hack into their computer and take you off their mailing list?'

'Yeah. He did. It lasted six whole, wonderful weeks. The FBI could really learn something from those guys, Scully.'

'So why are you keeping the letters?'

'For posterity?'

'I don't think posterity is going to be that interested, Mulder.'

'Maybe I'll save them until I need something to cheer me up.'

'Maybe you can read them on the plane.'

'Skinner wanted a list. I'd better get to work on that.' Even to himself he sounded depressed.

'You want me to pick you up at your apartment?' Scully asked.

'Yeah. I'll be packed and ready around seven.'

'Then I'll see you then.'

She had reached the door when she heard Mulder say, 'Scully, wait. I think I remembered something.'

'What is it, Mulder?'

'"Come and see." The words that were painted on the mirror. I think that's from the Bible.'

'That covers a lot of ground, Mulder. Are you saying there may have been a religious motive for the deaths?'

'I think the words are from the book of Revelation.' Scully waited patiently for more. Mulder wore the abstracted look he always wore as he searched through his memories.

'So what does it mean, Mulder?' she asked after a moment.

'There are hundreds of different interpretations of the book of Revelation.' Mulder said. 'It's a work of prophecy describing the end of the world. It was written by the apostle John in around 95 AD after he was banished to the island of Patmos by the Romans...'

'Mulder, I know all that. I had a good Catholic upbringing, remember? Just tell me what you think it means. Until I can get to a copy of the New Testament I'll settle for that.'

'Well as far as I can remember, 'come and see' is the phrase used by the Lamb of God to summon each of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.'

***

The airport was like most airports, air-conditioned, starkly utilitarian, filled with facilities that were only used because there was no other choice by people who only there because they were just passing through. Their flight was delayed and Scully went to try to find some coffee that had been brewing for less than three hours while Mulder bought a newspaper and flipped through it absently. He barely registered the front page: reports of some kind of chemical warfare attack on a remote Kurdish village, a new crisis in Northern Ireland, a lacklustre attempt to find a new angle on the Whitewater scandal. Even the Dilbert cartoon only briefly brought a smile to his face. *Skinner is the pointy-haired boss* he thought, but he knew that the comparison was unfair and his heart wasn't in it. He rolled the paper up and left it on the uncomfortable seat for the next bored traveller. *This whole thing is bugging me a lot more than it should. What's your problem with this, Mulder? You're supposed to be a psychologist. Work it out. It'll be something to do while you're waiting for a plane you don't want to get on to take you to a place you don't want to go to.*

'All right, Mulder, what's wrong?' He looked up abruptly as Scully sat down beside him and handed him a grey and watery looking coffee.

'This was all there was?'

'That's it, Mulder. It's that or Burger King's own.'

Mulder took a sip and grimaced. 'This makes death by dehydration seem like an appealing alternative, Scully.'

'Nobody's holding you down and forcing you to drink it, Mulder.

And you didn't answer my question. What is wrong with you today? You've hardly said a word since I picked you up.'

'You're always saying I talk too much, Scully.'

'It was refreshing for a while,' Scully admitted blandly. 'But I was starting to get worried. You've never been quiet for this long before.'

Mulder sighed. 'Ok, Scully. It's just that... well, the time I spent in Maine was special to me. It's separate from everything else in my life. For a couple of months I was happier than I could ever remember being before. I don't want to go back and start tearing it apart. I want to remember it the way it was.'

'Two people have already died, Mulder. This is the only connection we know of between them. You don't really have a choice.'

'I know I've got to do it, Scully. Nobody said I had to like it.'

'You weren't even at the camp that long. Anyway, I thought you said you hated it.'

'I did. This is more about the time I spent with Adam Pierson. I'm starting to remember a lot of things that didn't make sense. At least they didn't then.'

'There's something you should know, Mulder. While I was waiting in line for the coffee, I called in to check with Skinner. He told me to tell you that according to immigration there's no record of any French or United Kingdom citizen named Adam Pierson being in the US when Naomi Redburg died.'

'That's something, I suppose.'

'What did you mean, about things that didn't make sense?'

'I haven't really got it clear in my mind yet. I need to spend some time thinking it through.'

'Like Skinner said, you've got the whole flight.'

'It'll probably be more fun than eating the airline food. Though that's not really saying a lot. I've had trips to the dentist that are more fun than eating airline food.' He paused in thought for a moment. 'Now I think back, a couple of the times I've been shot were more fun than eating airline food.'

'You could always watch the in-flight movie,' Scully suggested.

'What is it?'

'I can't remember the title but I think it stars Macaulay Culkin.'

'Does he get shot?' Mulder asked, without much hope.

'Apparently it's one of those 'rite of passage' stories. It's supposed to be very moving.'

'You might have told me, Scully.'

'That there was going to be a Macaulay Culkin film?'

'That I'd died and gone to hell.'

'The kind of movie you like doesn't get an airing on reputable airlines, Mulder.'

'I'd pay extra.' Mulder paused in thought for a moment. 'Do you think Skinner would let us upgrade to first class if I made the case that it was essential for my mental health not to be strapped into a seat and forced to watch a Macaulay Culkin movie?'

'Mulder...'

'Maybe I could get him to do it on constitutional grounds, Scully. Under the cruel and unusual punishment clause or something...'

'I think I preferred it when you weren't saying anything,' Scully muttered to herself. 'Come on. I think they just announced our flight.'

* * *

Rapture 2: If you go down to the woods today  
by Wombat  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: Mulder/Methos  
FEEDBACK:   
WEBSITE: http://dialspace.dial.pipex.com/town/drive/xsi35/warning.html  
DISTRIBUTION: The more the merrier, but ask first.  
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine, but I'm not getting paid, and that has to count for something.  
SUMMARY: It's flashback time for Mulder, as he thinks back to the summer of '79.

* * *

Rapture 2: If you go down to the woods today

'Ladies and Gentlemen, we would like to take this opportunity to thank you for flying with Air France...'

Mulder lay back in his seat awkwardly, trying to get comfortable. Just behind him a woman was attempting to beat the world record for stuffing the most luggage into an overhead compartment. At least she didn't have any kids with her. Yet. Mulder shivered. It was going to be a long flight and the air conditioning was turned up too high. He'd have to ask for a blanket later. He tried to adjust the seat into some even remotely comfortable position but whatever he tried his knees were crammed against the seat in front. *Damn Bureau,* he thought sourly. Business class wouldn't have cost that much more. Well, a couple of thousand dollars. *Not as much as it's going to cost them for the orthopaedic surgery I'll need if the guy in front of me puts his seat back, anyway.*

Scully pushed her way through the crowded gangway and sat beside him.

'My turn for the window seat, Mulder.'

Mulder smirked at her. 'Is not.'

'Is too, Mulder.'

'Division head gets first dibs.'

'Come on, Mulder,' Scully said in a tone that told Mulder she wasn't in the mood for this. He sighed and pulled himself up.

'Mesdames et messieurs...' the intercom began again. Later they sat side by side, strapped in, waiting for the plane to start circling the airport runways. Mulder sighed, reached into his suit and switched off his mobile phone. He shifted uncomfortably and loosened his tie. The soft wool of his suit felt constricting in the tight space and he was all too aware of the lack of both shoulder holster and weapon. Scully, beside him, was flipping through the airline magazine, engrossed in some glossily illustrated article about the Loire's medieval heritage, either ignoring or not aware of her partner's unease. Mulder tried and failed to find a more comfortable position. He hated the boredom of long distance flights, and the food, and the censored in-flight movies and the way the attendants never left you alone for more than five minutes. He was restless by nature - having to sit still for so long was a constant, minor discomfort. He closed his eyes and in reluctant obedience to Skinner's dictates let his mind drift back to another uncomfortable journey, almost eighteen years before...

Maine July 5, 1979

Herb's station wagon bounced and jolted along one of Maine's less well maintained highways through a dark, unending growth of pines. It was hot - very hot - with a heaviness in the air that spoke of a coming storm, and the vinyl seat of the car had left the back of Mulder's t-shirt damp and sticky with sweat. The car window was dirty and could only wind down half way, and the metal of the door was too hot to touch. Mulder leant back restlessly in the back seat, and stared out at the endless passing green.

'Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...' Saffron sang tunelessly, pushing her long, golden hair back from her face with a practised gesture. Mulder gritted his teeth. He was starting to hate that song. Even country and western would have been better.

'Saffron, honey, are you reading the map?' Herb asked. He shifted his not-inconsiderable bulk in his seat and springs creaked in an attempt to accommodate him.

'We're ok,' Mulder said. 'We just keep going along here until we get to a general store and post office. Then it's a left turn after that, then third left down a dirt track.'

'I met a man, who once I knew there...'

Herb half turned in his seat. 'How'd you remember all that shit, Fox?'

'I've just got a good memory.'

'For he was a true-ooh-ooh love of mine..'

'We better stop at this store. Get some beer in, huh, Foxy?' Herb said with a wink.

'Yeah, and I need to pee,' Saffron said, cutting her song short.

'You should've said, honey. I'd have stopped. You could've gone behind a tree.'

'Oh God, no way, Herb! That is so unhygenic!'

'Honey, we're headed for a campsite in the middle of the woods. If you wanted restrooms, we could've gone to a hotel. Hey, you know, we still could...'

'Yeah, right, Herb. Just keep your hands to yourself and keep driving, willya?' Mulder shifted unhappily in the back seat. Like most bad ideas, coming here had seemed like a good idea at the time. His parents' divorce was just going through. His fault. With his leaving home, going to Oxford, there wasn't any reason for them to stay together any more. At the house his dad's stuff was being packed into boxes; his mom was getting a lot of sympathy from her friends at the bridge club. His dad had told him to get a summer job, but the thought of three months packing bags at a supermarket checkout or waiting tables for tourists had not appealed.

He'd been miserable and restless. The need to get away, to leave his parents to play out their drama alone, had become a quietly desperate imperative. Then, when he knew for certain that he couldn't endure another day, another hour, Herb Jenks had turned up, headed for Maine with his girlfriend Saffron to this 'really cool place' that Saffron had heard of. Mulder had ignored that fact his cousin was someone he'd always loathed despite the fact that they'd barely met a half dozen times before and that Saffron's real name was Tiffani and that she had a laugh that could etch glass. When she'd said 'You know, Fox, you should come with us. It'll be fun!', he'd jumped at the prospect. Like a lemming jumping over a cliff, as it turned out.

They stocked up at the general store, although there was little enough to stock up with. Tinned food, dry goods, a tiny freezer thickly crusted with frost, candy, magazines, a few overpriced tourist goods. These limited possibilities exhausted, they moved on towards their destination. The car bumped up a long hill, through deep forest. The road passed a lonely house, then half a mile later another one, with a dog chained in the yard. Soon after that it changed from asphalt to a dried, muddy track. They crested the top of the long rise, and far ahead of them and below a lake glittered through the trees.

The camp itself, another mile along the dirt track, was something of an anticlimax. The road ended in a mess of tyre tracks at a long clearing, dotted with stumps and with about ten tents, a motley mix of drab army surplus and bright blues and oranges. A low wooden cabin stood empty and abandoned to one side, window frames empty. At the far end, the remains of a fire left a bare and ashy circle in the grass, and through the trees, the lake showed grey and flat. From one of the tents a radio blared, but the noise was so tinny and distorted that Mulder couldn't make out the song. There was no other sign of life. The air smelled of smoke and trees and the heat was oppressive. They got out of the car and stood uncertainly in the clearing, taking stock of their surroundings.

'Jesus, what a dump,' Herb muttered. He ran a hand across his receding hairline, wiping the sweat from his sunburned forehead.

'Herb, that is just so typical of you,' Saffron said, but her tone was defensive.

'So where are all these hippies?' Herb demanded. He reached into the car and sounded the horn.

'Jeez, well that was a good start, *Herb*,' Saffron snapped. 'Wake everyone up, why don't you?'

'It's eleven o'clock in the morning, *Saffron*,' Herb said with an air of infuriating reasonableness. He reached into the car and sounded another long blast. From somewhere further down among the tents someone shouted 'Shut the fuck up!'

'All right!' an irritated voice called from the cabin. 'Jesus, I'm coming already.'

The man who emerged was shorter than Mulder, with a slight but wiry build. His face was sharp, his hair shoulder length and dark. He had a beard, but it was closely trimmed. His age could have been anything from thirty to fifty. He wore jeans, a white shirt and a suede waistcoat, all immaculate. But Mulder's single overriding impression was that the man called Arch Drake was bored - very bored - and completely uninterested in them.

Drake tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans and surveyed them expressionlessly. 'Ok, kids. Welcome to Rivendell. My name's Arch Drake and I'm in charge here.'

Saffron gave him her most dazzling smile and pushed her hair back from her face with the same practiced motion she'd used in the car.

'Hi, I'm Saffron. This is Herb. Oh yeah, and this is Fox. Wow, it's just so great to be here. Our trip was, like, a nightmare, you know, but my friend said this was such a great place. I don't know if you remember Stacey? She was here a couple of weeks back with her boyfriend Jake?'

Drake gave her a cold, bored glance and continued as if she hadn't spoken.

'This is how it works. Rule number one, don't upset the locals. We don't want any trouble with the cops or the local good old boys. Rule number two, anything goes unless it breaks rule number one. One exception - no fighting. Got any problems with someone else here, anything you can't settle between yourselves, you bring them to me. The judge's decision is final, if I ask you to go, you're out of here. You can cook your own food or you can put ten bucks a week in the bag, starting today, and share with the rest of us. Stick your tent anywhere you want and have a nice stay. Any questions?' There were none. Drake's tone of voice did not encourage them. 'Good,' Drake said, with an emphasis that suggested that he was barely keeping his temper in check. 'Great. I'll leave you to it. Have fun.'

There was a space under the trees towards the end of the clearing, where yellowed grass showed that another tent had recently been taken up. Herb drove down and backed the car into place beside a battered camper van. Mulder and Saffron walked down after him, Mulder silent but filled with increasing foreboding, Saffron muttering sourly to herself, (or to Mulder, it wasn't entirely clear), about what a jerk Drake was. By the time they arrived Herb was already pulling their bags out onto the uneven ground. On one side of their space a new tent stood, zipped closed. The tent to their right was ancient army surplus, the source of the radio Mulder had heard earlier. Even close-up the sound was not greatly improved.

That Herb had broken out the beer ten minutes after they started to pitch the tent was probably a bad sign. It was also not encouraging that Saffron disappeared almost immediately - going for a walk, she'd said, in a tone of voice that strongly suggested that she was sick of the sight of both of them. Their neighbour in the army surplus tent watched disinterestedly as they ineptly put up the tent. Apparently the only genuine hippy there, he seemed rather disgruntled and reacted with hostility to Mulder's one tentative attempt to be sociable.

'Hi. I'm Mulder.'

'Keefe.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Name's Keefe.'

'That must have hurt,' Mulder commented.

'What?'

'Getting a tattoo on your wrist like that? Wasn't that kind of painful?'

'I got a lot of tattoos,' Keefe said, in a voice that discouraged further conversation.

'What's it supposed to be? Is it some kind of symbol?'

'It's the blue bird of happiness. Now why don't you mind your own business, kid?'

'Yeah. Sure. Sorry,' Mulder said unhappily. Herb gave him an *I told you so* look from where he was hauling another clinking cardboard box out of the back of his car. The rain had started half an hour later. It hadn't stopped for the best part of two days. All in all, it had not been a particularly good start.

***

On the plane to Paris Mulder managed a wry smile. Now, almost eighteen years later, he could look back on the whole experience with a kind of bleak amusement. Back then he'd seriously considered walking the ten miles to the nearest bus stop. Herb had been right about one thing. The place was a dump - a boring, unfriendly dump. It was a testament to exactly how bad things had been at home that he'd stayed around long enough for the rain to ease off.

***

10.30 am July 7, 1979

It was raining. Hard. Mulder sat in the entrance to the tent and looked across the muddy camp up at the murky sky and wondered (again) what the hell he was doing there. The smell of wet earth, wet trees, wet tent and wet clothes rose around him. Through the thick pine trees the surface of the lake was opaque and as grey as the sky. When the sun came out, Mulder guessed,there would be bugs. More bugs. He idly scratched at a bite on his arm. Finding new bug bites was about the only entertainment this place had to offer. He'd already read everything in the tent. Twice. Including the labels on the empty beer bottles and the warning tag on his sleeping bag. Herb's snores echoed around him. As he looked out over the clearing, he saw a bulky figure, enveloped in a tent of blue plastic, stumbling through the mud and the torrential downpour towards him.

'Hi Fox!' the woman called Sunflower said, pushing her hood back to reveal a wet but amiable face. She exuded a kind of desperate, earnest motherliness. 'Rebecca made some cookies. I wondered if you and Herb and Saffron maybe wanted one?' She held out a soggy plate.

'What are they?' Mulder asked.

'Carob and granola. They're vegan!' She said the last as though it was a major selling point.

'Uh, thanks, Sunflower.'

'Why don't you take two, Fox. You look as though you could use it.'

'Thanks. Umm... is there anything I can do to help?'

Sunflower gave him a blissful smile and patted his cheek. 'You're so sweet, Fox. Do you think Herb and Saffron want a cookie?'

Herb's snores reverberated around them.

'Herb's asleep now,' Mulder said, 'But I'll ask him when he wakes up. I think Saffron's next door, with Jacques.'

The newer tent on the other side from Keefe's had turned out to belong to someone called Jacques Lemarchand. He and Saffron seemed to be getting along, to put it mildly. Over the past two days she'd started to spend most of her time in the other tent.

'It's great how fast she's making friends,' Sunflower said, with another damp but beatific smile.

'She's really bringing Jacques out of himself. For weeks he's hardly had a friendly word for anyone. I think Saffron has a very giving spirit.'

Mulder nodded. He suspected that the fact that Saffron had once been a cheerleader may have had something to do with it too.

'I think I'll go and find them now,' Sunflower said brightly. She shuffled off into the rain again, holding the plate close to her in a vague attempt to keep the cookies dry.

Mulder looked at his cookie appraisingly, then bit into it. He winced. His attempt had made no impact on the cookie, but his teeth would be feeling it for a day or so. A nibble at one of the soggier parts revealed that the cookie had a flavourless, gritty taste. He decided to save it for a more appropriate occasion - say when he was starving to death in a wilderness somewhere. The way the food was here, he considered, that fate was probably only a day or two away. Across the site he could see another tent being taken down. A few people had left since they'd got here. It seemed that for most the alternative lifestyle experience had lost its appeal when the rain started. He watched for a while, before another figure emerged from the tent next door, long blonde hair spilling out of the sides of her rain hood.

'Hey, Saffron,' Mulder said.

Saffron favoured him with a bored little smile. 'Hiya, Fox. God, this weather sucks. Herb awake yet?'

'Uh... no. Not yet.'

'God, he is *such* a slob. Jacques is driving me out to the mall at Portland to get some stuff. Tell him when he wakes up, Ok?'

'Sure. Could you get me a few things while you're there? Just food, mainly.'

'Yeah. Whatever. Just make me a list of the stuff you want real quick. We've heading off in ten minutes.'

'Just let me find something to write on.'

Saffron sat down beside him as he found a dry piece of paper and made out the list. 'You know, Fox, this place is kind of a dump,' she said. 'There's no real sanitary facilities or showers or anything. I mean, is that allowed? Isn't that breaking some kind of law? It's so unhygienic, you know?'

'I guess there's always the lake,' Mulder suggested.

'Ewwww!' Saffron said. 'Washing in a lake full of fish pee? That is so gross, Fox.'

'It's Mulder, Saffron.'

Saffron gave him a pitying look. 'It's really weird to call yourself by your last name, you know?'

Mulder sighed and handed her the list. 'I think this is all.'

'God, this stuff is such junk, Fox. It's so bad for you, you know?'

'Here's ten bucks. I think it'll be enough. Can you pick me up a newspaper as well? And Herb might want some more beer. He got through the last lot pretty fast.'

'Yeah? Well as far as I'm concerned he can get his own beer.' She shot a dark look into the back of the tent. 'You know, Fox, I'm sorry for you, stuck here with him. You should get out and meet some of the other guys here. They're all fun.'

'Maybe when it stops raining I will. Thanks, Saffron.'

'Seeya later, Foxy.'  
The rain finally cleared towards the end of the morning. Despite the bugs, Maine looked almost beautiful - fresh from the storm. The lake had slowly turned clear and blue, and the short grass in the clearing was already drying under the warm sun. Mulder emerged into the sunlight feeling better than he had done in days, leaving the still snoring Herb behind him. Across the clearing he saw Max Donnelly leave the cabin he shared with Drake. He raised his hand in greeting, and Donnelly nodded back shortly. He was wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and as Mulder watched he set off towards the lake at a sprint. Donnelly, he had discovered, exercised a lot. His one attempt at conversation with Max Donnelly the day before had lasted less than ten seconds.

'Hi. I'm Mulder. We came in yesterday.'

'Yeah. Sure. Hi. Now, if you wouldn't mind, could you get out of the way while I finish my workout?'

Mulder had taken the hint. It wasn't as if Donnelly actually stood still for long enough to have a conversation with anyway. He wandered down towards the lake and sat with his back against one of the trees, letting the sun soak through his clothes to warm his chilled skin. He looked out over the water, which lapped softly against the pebbled shore and glittered invitingly in the sun. It was peaceful. Relaxing. Mulder hurled a pebble into the water.

He'd been there for two days. He was already bored out of his mind.

He wished he'd brought some of his books with him, but he'd left home in too much of a hurry to pack any. Maybe Herb would lend him some of his secret stash of Playboys. He'd been told they sometimes had quite good articles.

He glanced over at the dark haired man who lay sprawled on a blanket a little way away under the trees, a book in one hand and a beer in the other. Mulder couldn't remember seeing him before, but then again there were quite a few people who hadn't left their tents in the lousy weather. The other looked to be in his mid-twenties, with an intelligent, good-humoured face and an air of total self-possession. He was lean and angular, and his sprawl spoke of casual grace rather than awkwardness. His expression was serene - he seemed to be blissfully absorbed in his book. For lack of anything else to do, Mulder found himself wondering what the book was. Tolkien would have been too obvious, and in any case it didn't look as though the other man subscribed to the hippy ethos. His hair was cut short with almost military severity. The jeans and t-shirt were old but presentable. Detective story? A Rex Stout, maybe, but not an Agatha Christie. Science Fiction? Again maybe. Someone like Roger Zelazny. Comic book? No way, and anyway, the cover was wrong... With a start he discovered that his evaluating gaze was being returned, a little coldly. He reddened slightly.

'I'm sorry. I was.. uh trying to guess what your book was.'

The older man raised an eyebrow. The expression on his face was one that Mulder soon came to know, a kind of quiet, sardonic amusement. 'So what was your best guess?' The accent was English, rich and deep.

'I was still narrowing it down. Anyway, I didn't know you were British.'

A raised eyebrow. 'That makes a difference?'

'All I can think of now is Sherlock Holmes,' Mulder said apologetically.

'It's the nose, isn't it?' the Englishman said with a hint of a smile. 'Those Basil Rathbone films have got a lot to answer for.'

'The whole attitude, I guess.'

'I'm flattered,' the man said dryly. 'I think. I'm Adam. Adam Pierson. You came in a day or two ago, didn't you?'

'Yeah. With Herb and Saffron. I haven't been out of my tent much with all the rain. My name's Mulder.'

'Just Mulder?'

'Yeah,' Mulder said defensively. Adam shrugged.

'Mulder it is, then. Nice to meet you, Mulder. Maybe I'll see you around.'

'Sure,' Mulder said. 'I'll let you finish your book. What was it, anyway?'

Adam held the book up wordlessly. Mulder squinted to read the title against the dappled sunlight then blinked in surprise. 'Ovid's Metamorphoses? That's kind of old.'

The other nodded. 'Ever read it?'

'Yeah. A few times. We had a copy at home. Mom wouldn't have had it in the house if she knew what was in it. She even cancelled her Reader's Digest subscription once.'

'Sex and violence,' Adam said, laying his book down and stretching absently. 'Two of the constants of great literature.'

Mulder nodded. 'The violence always seemed weird to me. The guy spent his whole life partying in Rome. Why was he so obsessed with battles and killing? It seemed so out of synch with the rest of the book.'

The other man's eyes grew somehow distant, lost. 'Maybe there was a darkness inside him he wanted to get out into the light. Maybe he wrote about change and transformation because he wanted to change himself. Maybe the first part of that was accepting what he had been.'

'Maybe, I guess,' Mulder said uncertainly.

Adam let his head fall back, and grinned up at him. 'Yeah, I'm reaching. Sex and violence probably sold about as many books two thousand years ago as they do today.'

'It's still a great book. I wish I'd brought more stuff to read. It seems like it's about all there is to do here.'

'Stick around, kid,' Adam said dryly. 'You'll get the opportunity to take part in the world's longest running and most incompetently played game of Dungeons and Dragons.'

Mulder shook his head. 'Christ. What the hell am I doing here?'

'You know, I keep asking myself that. The conversation's lousy, the food stinks...'

'I never thought I'd say this,' Mulder muttered, 'But I'd kill for a Big Mac right about now.'

'Murders have been committed for less,' Adam agreed sardonically.

'Do we all share the cooking here?'

'Supposedly. Rebecca and Sunflower seem to have taken over. It's probably just as well. Their cooking's bad but it's still technically edible. Drake tried to cook a couple of times..' he shook his head. 'You wouldn't believe how much the nearest Chinese takeout charges to deliver up here.' He looked at Mulder appraisingly. 'I don't suppose you can cook?'

'I don't know. I've never tried.'

'Probably not, then.'

'It's a reasonable assumption. Which one's Rebecca?'

'The skinny blonde with the beads. She's into nurturing things. If she offers to give you a back-rub don't take her up on it. She gets a little over-enthusiastic about it. Jacques is the creep with the long hair and the guitar who's putting the moves on your friend's girlfriend.'

Mulder nodded. He'd disliked Jacques on first sight. With the single gold earring, the curly dark hair, the heavy sideburns and the air of sleazy sexual magnetism, Jacques reminded him of a younger, prettier Oliver Reed. He had a kind of smug confidence in his own attractiveness that made Mulder's fists itch.

Adam waved his hand airily towards the cabin. He seemed to be enjoying his role as tour guide. 'Drake is pretty much in charge. He's the guy with the beard who acts as though this is all one huge joke. He bought the land and set the whole thing up. Max is here with Drake. He's a nice kid but I don't see him sticking around here much longer. Naomi over there's probably been here the longest apart from Drake and Max. She calls herself Sunflower,'

Mulder looked over at the woman he'd only seen previously in a voluminous raincoat. In her thirties, he thought, and easily forty pounds overweight. Her hair was long and dark, with just a suggestion of a bad perm. She wore a loose cheesecloth shirt, a long, tie-dyed skirt and two or three pounds of beads around her neck. She was moving slowly and ponderously from foot to foot in a kind of silent dance.

Mulder narrowed his eyes. 'What's she doing?'

'Tai chi, I think. That or she's practising for a disco contest no-one told me about.' He shrugged. 'She's not going to win any prizes either way but at least she's enjoying herself.'

Mulder tore his eyes away. 'Who are the others? Who else is here?'

'Keefe's been around a while but he doesn't say a lot. The rest just come and go. Most of them are kids from New York and Boston. They come here because they know it drives their parents nuts, get bored after a couple of weeks and head right back to the comforts of home again.'

Mulder looked over at him curiously. 'So why are you over here? This doesn't seem much like your kind of thing.'

Adam shrugged noncommittally.

'It just seemed like a good idea at the time. At least I'm getting to catch up on some reading.'

'I wish I'd thought of that when I packed.'

'You're welcome to borrow anything I've brought along.'

'Thanks,' Mulder said, surprised. Adam smiled again, a real smile this time, not sardonic or disdainfully amused and Mulder smiled back, suddenly shy at the unfamiliar sense of instant connection.

'In the blue tent.' Adam gestured vaguely towards the far side of the camp. 'There's a red rucksack next to my sleeping bag. Knock yourself out.' Mulder found the books quickly in the small but tidy tent - they seemed to make up most of the other man's possessions. Only half of the books were even in English, but Mulder found several that looked promising, and eventually settled for 'The Thirty-Nine Steps'. They read together in companionable silence for most of the afternoon until dinner - a strangely chewy casserole with dark, unidentifiable lumps floating in it. Washing up afterwards reminded Mulder of scout camp - greasy, cold water and sodden dishtowels. 'Hey, Fox.' It was Rebecca, the skinny blonde with the penchant for back rubs. 'We're going to start the game soon. Did you want to join in?'

'The game?'

'Dungeons and Dragons. It's kind of fun. Come on Fox. How do you know till you've tried it?'

'I don't really think...'

'Don't let Adam put you off. You should give it a try, Fox.'

'Can I watch for a while?'

'You sure you don't want to join in?' Rebecca asked, with a hopeful smile.

'I'll just wait to see if it's my kind of thing.'

He watched as the paraphernalia was brought out. Rebecca was apparently in charge and seemed to take it very seriously. There were incredibly detailed maps which someone (Rebecca?) must have spent hours drawing. There were enormous books of rules. There were strange, many-sided dice. Everybody had a little painted model of their character. Herb, beer in one hand, was taking to the game with some enthusiasm. His character, Mulder discovered, was called Gorn the Mighty, proud possessor of a sword of smiting and a costume composed almost entirely of leather straps. Saffron had returned too, and had seated herself opposite Herb, next to Jacques. Her character was a druidess called Moonflower who wore a long, white robe and talked inanely about the harmony of nature but was otherwise indistinguishable from Saffron herself. Jacques played a black clad assassin who seemed to spend much of his time deliberately or accidentally sabotaging the efforts of the others, while Sunflower's slender, doe-eyed healer said and did almost nothing and Max's warrior only seemed to come alive when there was something to be hacked to pieces.

Drake seemed to be staying well away. Mulder didn't blame him.

He watched for about ten minutes while the ill-matched group lurched from disaster to disaster, bickering constantly as they went, before he finally gave up. He wandered back over to the lake shore, where Adam sat among the trees, catching the last of the sun. He sat back down beside him and let his head fall back. Adam gave him an enquiring look. 'Not your kind of thing, kid?'

'How long did you say that game's been going on for?'

'Almost every evening since I got here. Months, probably.'

'Christ. I just don't see the point.'

'Basic wish fulfilment, I guess. Sounds like your friend Saffron wants to be noble and wise and ol' Herb wants to be powerful and all-commanding. In real life, it just ain't gonna happen.' Adam took a swallow from his bottle of beer.

'And Herb's sword of smiting?'

'Maybe in some indefinable way he feels he's lacking in the 'sword of smiting' department.'

Mulder nodded gravely. 'I think I see.'

'Bright kid. You want a beer?'

'I'm underage.'

Adam gave him a long look. 'You want a beer?' he asked again.

Mulder gave in. 'A beer would be great. Thanks.' A couple of hours and several beers later they were both lying side by side, looking up at the stars.

'What's England like?' Mulder asked sleepily.

'Like most places. Just feels older.'

'Older. That helps.'

'This is my seventh beer. Don't expect anything too profound.'

'I just wondered what to expect.'

'Words of wisdom, huh? Don't eat the pub food.'

Mulder failed to suppress a grin. 'Again, this isn't helpful.'

'You'll find it's a matter of survival, kid.'

'Anything else I should know?'

Adam looked up to the stars, as if seeking divine inspiration. 'Using the word 'quaint' is unlikely to endear you to the locals.'

'I'll bear it in mind.'

'You want another beer?'

'I think I'm drunk.'

'You should keep going 'til you're sure.'

'Why aren't you as drunk as I am, Adam?'

Beside him Adam said lazily: 'Guess I've built up a tolerance. Years and years and years of practice.'

'I had Saffron bring me back some food if you're hungry.'

'This place I'm always hungry. What've you got?'

'Hostess Twinkies. Or could be Ding Dongs.'

'That's good.'

'Potato chips.'

'You mean potato crisps.'

Mulder felt his mouth curl in an involuntary smile. 'I mean potato chips.'

'If you go to England and ask for potato chips, they'll give you French fries.'

'We're not in England.'

'I know. I'm just telling you. Useful piece of advice number three.'

'Do you want some of my potato chips or not?'

'Yeah. After that stuff they cooked for supper...' he waved vaguely in the direction of the cook tent. 'What the hell is that, anyway?'

'It's bean stew.'

Adam grinned up at the stars. 'I don't want to know what it's been, I want to know what it is now.'

The joke was feeble, but suddenly it seemed like the funniest thing Mulder had ever heard. He started to laugh so hard he could hardly draw breath. He rolled over and buried his face helplessly in his arms, his whole body shaking.

Adam said lazily 'Kid, you're out of it. You're completely smashed.'

Mulder just lay there gasping. His throat was sore. His stomach hurt. 'Oh God. Oh God, that was so funny.'

'Forget the chips. You're not going to make it back on your own in this state.' They lay in silence for a little while longer. Mulder yawned widely.

'Kid...'

'Mmm?'

'It's getting late. We really should get back soon.'

'It's so great out here,' Mulder said indistinctly. 'Good to go to sleep under the stars.'

'Just us, the wind, the trees, the sky and every bug in this half of Maine? No thanks. C'mon kid. I don't want to have to carry you back to your tent.'

'What time is it?' Mulder asked drowsily.

Adam half sat up, and looked up at the moon. Mulder looked over at him. The silver light made his face seem pale and serene.

Otherworldly. Lovely. Mulder shivered, not entirely because of the chill, then felt himself flush. *Get a grip, Mulder,* he thought, with bitter, self-directed sarcasm. Too much beer. That had to be it.

'Well it must be almost 1am and I'm usually up at six,' Adam said, yawning, stretching comfortably.

'At six?' Mulder asked. 'What for?'

'I go running while it's still cool out. You're welcome to come along if you want.'

'Yeah. That'd be good. I guess Herb'll still be dead to the world at 6am, so I won't disturb him getting up.'

'Good 'ol Herb.' Adam said vaguely. 'Kid, forgive me for asking, but what are you doing here with that joker?'

'Mulder shrugged. It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

'You mean he's not holding one of your relatives hostage? I though he must have been blackmailing you at the very least.'

Mulder managed a grin, despite the tiny pang of pain deep within him.

'Guess you can't choose your family.' He looked down at his hands, his good mood gone. 'At the moment that's kind of a painful subject.'

'Family often is.' Adam agreed gently.

Mulder looked up at him. 'You seem kind of self-sufficient.'

'I haven't got much family left. You?'

'My parents are getting divorced.'

'And things weren't so good at home.'

'No.'

'It must have been bad, if heading up here with Herb seemed like a good idea.'

Mulder nodded again. 'Like I said, you can't choose your family.'

'Just your friends, kid.' Adam said, and Mulder felt himself flush again.

He said awkwardly, 'I'd better get back. I'll see you in the morning. Tonight was...it was really kind of fun.'

'Yes, it was.' Adam agreed. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

***

'Would you like a drink, sir?'

'I'm sorry... what?'

'A drink, sir. Would you like a drink?' The stewardess was leaning over him in the darkened cabin.

'Do you have any beer?' Mulder asked, more for nostalgia's sake than because he actually liked it.

'Mulder, you'll dehydrate if you drink alcohol,' Scully said sleepily from beside him. Her eyes were closed and her blanket was tucked up under her chin.

'I know, Scully. And my feet will swell up if I don't take my shoes off.'

'Well don't say I didn't warn you.'

Mulder sighed. 'I'll have a mineral water please.' Sipping his water, he thought about Adam and found that doing so was still capable of triggering a keen and unexpected pang of something that was almost pain within him, even after so many years. He lay back and closed his eyes.

***

6.15 am July 11th, 1979

'Morning kid. Ready to go?'

Adam stood at the entrance of Herb's tent. Mulder stretched sleepily and smiled up at him from where he lay on his back, tangled in his sleeping bag.

'Yeah. I'm with you in a minute. I think I'm getting more used to this.'

'The running or the six o'clock starts?'

'The running. I used to have a paper round. Early mornings aren't so bad.'

'Maybe you should tell Herb about it.'

Mulder glanced back into the depths of the tent where a series of thunderous snores spoke eloquently of Herb's presence.

'I don't think he even remembers what a morning is,' he said, with a sleepy grin. He pulled himself out of his sleeping bag. 'Just let me find some clothes.'

'I'll be by the fire. I've got some coffee going.'

'I thought you only drank beer.'

'Even for me six in the morning is a little early for beer. Or a little late, of course, depending on how the night before went.'

'Party animal, huh?' Mulder said, rubbing his eyes.

'Who said anything about parties? This is beer we're talking about.' They sat beside Adam's tiny camp stove and drank the coffee, strong and black.

'Once you've been at it for a few days it gets easier. Do you want to go out further today?'

'How about round the lake?'

'Are you sure, kid? That's about four or five miles. Some of it's hard going.'

'I think I'm up to it. You know, I'm surprised we don't run into Max more.'

'He usually runs in the evenings. He takes the whole thing way too seriously.'

'I noticed. I thought that was just me.'

'He's like that with everybody except Drake. Don't worry about it.'

'They seem to go back a long way.'

'Just a couple of years, I think. You about ready to go?'

'Two minutes.'

Because the run was longer, they took it more slowly, but even so, Mulder was winded by the time they'd run around the eastern half of the lake and reached the point directly across from the camp on the opposite shore. In wordless agreement the two of them slowed and stopped. Mulder bent over, catching his breath, then straightened to look out over the lake. Across the water he could see the jumble of tents and cars like toys in the distance. A tiny figure that could only have been Sunflower crossed to the sheltered cooking fire. Mulder's face burned with the unaccustomed exercise, and he could hear his pulse pounding through his head. Adam, he noticed, was hardly even out of breath.

'Christ, you're fit,' he managed. He sat on the cool grass and let himself fall back.

Adam sat beside him. 'Give it time, kid.'

For a little while they sat in companionable silence, watching the camp across the water.

'You're quiet this morning,' Adam commented.

Mulder wiped the damp hair back from his forehead. 'I was just thinking about the stuff Rebecca was talking about last night. That theory of hers.'

'Remind me. Which one?'

'The Jonestown thing. About it being run by the CIA?'

'Yeah. One of the more 'out there' conspiracy theories I've come across.'

'I think even 'out there' is being pretty charitable,' Mulder said. He sat awkwardly, and swatted at a buzzing insect that had come too close in the humid heat. Adam handed him the half-empty bottle of insect repellent.

'Here you go, kid. That stuff doesn't last long when you start doing serious exercise.'

'And you do this for fun.'

'Yeah. That's the theory. As theories go it's pretty much 'out there' too.'

Mulder sighed. 'But the Jonestown thing. Last night, they all pretty much believed it. There's no proof, no logic, nothing except coincidences and loose connections, but they just swallowed it whole. I guess some people will just about believe anything.'

'Yeah,' Adam agreed dryly. 'Unless it has a government seal of approval, of course.'

'But none of it makes any sense. I heard some theory - the simplest explanation is usually right..?'

'Occam's razor. "Plurality is not to be assumed without necessity", I think it is.'

'Yeah. It seems like here it's the opposite. The more illogical and complicated something is the more they want to believe in it.'

Adam took a deep swallow from his water bottle and passed it to Mulder. 'Kid, you've got to realise, it's like a faith for them. They want to believe, they don't want to think.'

'They're just the same as the people at home. They want to believe what they're told, except it's what they're told by different people.'

'That's human nature, kid.'

'And I suppose at least the stuff the government gives out makes sense most of the time.'

'Kid, that's just because they're better organised. A lot of things just don't have any sensible explanation. Unanswered questions bother people and bothered people are harder to govern. So the government invents its own sensible explanations to keep people happy.'

'So what is the truth?'

'Beats me, kid. I suppose it's somewhere out there between the official explanations and the wacko theories. If you find it nobody'll believe you anyway.'

Mulder shook his head. 'How d'you get this cynical, Adam?'

Adam grinned. 'Years and years of practice, kid.'

They sat in silence for a few minutes. 'You've gone quiet on me again, kid.'

'I was just thinking... about reasons why someone might just disappear. I mean, not ordinary reasons.'

Adam glanced at him curiously. 'Were you thinking of anyone in particular?'

'Yeah. You could say that.' Mulder said unhappily. 'When I was twelve, my sister disappeared.'

'Just disappeared?'

'Yeah. One night she just vanished out of our room.'

'How old was she?'

'Eight. She was only eight.'

'I'm sorry, Mulder,' Adam said gently and gravely. 'What happened?'

'I don't know. I can't remember. I was in the same room and I can't remember what happened. I heard that other people have vanished in the same way with no explanation and I thought maybe that could be what happened to her because there isn't any other explanation that makes any sense. I guess you think I'm crazy.'

'No. I don't think you're crazy.'

'My dad did. Does. Mom won't even talk about it. She won't let anyone talk about it. I guess it's part of the reason I came here. To see if there was anyone who could tell me anything about that stuff. Just someone I could talk to about it. But it wouldn't mean anything even if they did. Christ, listen to me. I've known you for a week and I'm telling you all this crap that's in my head.'

'Hey, kid, c'mon. It's all right.'

He felt Adam rubbing his shoulder, then his neck and upper back in a gesture of comfort.

'Shit,' Mulder said softly. 'I didn't want this to happen. I'm sorry.'

'De nada, kid. Want to talk about it some more?'

Mulder just muttered: 'I'm sorry.' again.

'Kid, it's ok. Really. Don't get uptight on me and bolt into the woods. Your mother will never forgive me if I get you eaten by a moose before you go to England.'

Mulder managed a smile. 'You're telling me there are man-eating moose in Maine?'

'Oh it's true, kid. We used to see them a lot round here but I think the bigfoots chased most of them off.' He smiled as Mulder shook his head, smiling despite himself. 'Come on. Let's abandon this run and get something to eat.'

Mulder shuddered. 'Great. Another Naomi and Rebecca breakfast.'

Adam shook his head. 'A mile or so that way there's a cross-roads with the interstate. There's a fast food place. I go out there about once a week when the craving for grease gets too much for me.'

'Do they serve burgers?'

'Burgers, cheesecake, steaks, coffee you could stand a spoon up in. All grease and additives. Real food. In case you hadn't heard, we've got sunflower seeds on the menu for lunch back at the camp.'

'Actually I'm starting to like the sunflower seeds.'

'I think it's going to be a sunflower seed and lentil casserole.'

'You said the diner was about a mile that way?'

***

On the plane going towards France, Mulder smiled at that memory. Probably the first time that someone had actually listened without either humouring him or telling him he was nuts. And the realisation that on that day he'd found what he'd been looking for all his life up until then. Someone he could talk to about the crap in his head. Someone who'd listen as though they thought it mattered.

***

The diner was called Mack's and most of the people who stopped there seemed to be truckers or tourists. Adam greeted the frumpy woman behind the counter as Marion and received a tired smile in return. The menu was basic, but the food looked good. Adam ordered hash browns, eggs and baked beans, cheesecake and coffee. Mulder ate his way through two burgers with all the toppings, a portion of fries, a coke and two helpings of apple pie with ice cream. Towards the end Adam sat and drank his coffee and just watched him eat with a faint smile on his face. When he'd finished, Mulder said: 'That was great. I was so hungry. I've never eaten that much in one go before.'

'You need it kid. You're too thin. You'll run most of it off on the way back anyway.'

'Can we stick around here for a while? Listen to some music, maybe?'

'Sure. Why not? As long as we don't end up walking home in the dark it's not a problem.'

'Just let me check out the jukebox. You want a game of pool?'

One game turned into three or four as the day wore on and the morning became afternoon. Halfway through the last game a car pulled in abruptly from the highway, and Adam lifted his head warily as if sensing something Mulder couldn't hear.

'Game's over, kid,' he said, shortly. 'We need to get going..'

'Aw come on, Adam. I was beating you..'

'Now, kid.'

Mulder looked at him in confusion as the door of the diner opened. Adam murmured 'Damn.' very softly as two police officers entered. One of them went up to the counter and ordered coffee, but the other came straight to Adam. He was heavily set and balding. His eyes were pale and grey.

'All right, boy..' the man started softly, then his eyes narrowed as if in recognition. I know you. You're the Brit from the camp.'

Adam said warily 'That's right. What about it?'

'Strange place to come on holiday, isn't it?'

'Maine is a beautiful state,' Adam said carefully.

'I meant, camping with a bunch of hippies,' the man drawled. 'What are your intentions here?'

'I try not to get into trouble.'

'You don't like fighting, do you.'

'Not when I can avoid it.'

'And when you can't?'

'Oh, I'll fight if I have to,' Adam said, and Mulder saw the challenge in his eyes.

The man nodded slowly. 'Stay out of trouble, boy. I don't like your sort in my territory. That goes for you and your four friends. Stay out of trouble or I'll have your head.'

'Understood,' Adam said. 'Let's go, kid.'

Outside the diner Mulder asked: 'Adam, what was that about?'

Adam shrugged. 'He was just throwing his weight around. Don't let it bother you.'

'Did you know him from somewhere before? You're not... you're not in some kind of trouble, are you?'

'Nah. He just thinks he knows my type.'

'If that was all hot air then why are we running away?' Mulder asked belligerently.

Adam sighed. 'You heard what Drake said about being nice to the locals, kid. I don't want to make any trouble for anyone else at the camp. Besides, we're not running away. We're making a strategic withdrawal.'

'You really think he could make a lot of trouble for us?' Mulder said. Knowing that the law disapproved of him, even in this form, made him feel obscurely guilty.

'Kid, this isn't the deep south. We're not going to wake up one morning at the bottom of a swamp. On the other hand I wouldn't put it past him to find some excuse for the two of us to spend a couple of nights in the local cells.'

'How did you know it was them before they came through the door?' Mulder asked curiously.

'Heard the police radio in the parking lot outside.' Adam said with a shrug. 'I guess you were too wrapped up in the game to notice.'

'I guess so. But how did he know we were from the camp?'

'He must have seen me before. Maybe when I was out driving. Don't lose any sleep over it, kid. I'm not going to. Are you ready to go back?'

'But what did he mean about your four friends?'

'How should I know? A couple of times I've driven some of the others into Portland. Maybe that's where he saw me. You're making a big deal out of nothing here, kid.'

'Yeah. I guess so. What he said just seemed weird, that's all.'

'Come on. I'll race you to where the trails cross.'

'Hey! Wait!..'

***

On the plane to Paris Mulder narrowed his eyes.

'Stay out of trouble or I'll have your head,' he murmured.

'Mulder, what did you just say?' Scully said in sleepy disbelief from beside him.

'Nothing. Just trying to think of a name.' Not for the first time, Mulder blessed his eidetic memory. He'd caught only a glimpse of the man's name tag, but if had been enough. Officer Gene P Jordan, Lewiston-Auburn sheriff's office. Another name for Skinner's list. He let his thoughts drift back to the camp.

***

11.20pm July 13 1979

'Jacques, don't do that!' Saffron's muffled, high pitched giggles split the night air from the tent next door. Beside Mulder, Herb snored on regardless.

Mulder pulled his pillow over his head. *How the hell can he sleep through this?* he thought.

'Jacques.. I'm warning you.. don't do that...' Saffron gave a little shriek of unconvincing outrage. Jacques said something that Mulder couldn't quite catch, but his tone of voice was sly and persuasive.

'You'll wake the others!' Saffron hissed. 'Don't! Ooh Jacques..!'

Mulder sat up abruptly and pulled himself out of his sleeping bag. Sleeping out by the lake with the bugs was better than this. He didn't look around to the tent where Saffron and Jacques had both fallen unaccountably silent - he just threw his sleeping bag over his shoulder and left. As soon as the flap fell closed behind him he heard Saffron start to giggle again, and Jacques' low, contemptuous laughter. He felt himself flushing miserably, but staying nearby with that going on hadn't been an option. He looked around for a place to sleep and saw Adam's tent, low and neat, on the other side of the fire, away from the others. A low, telltale light barely illuminated the canvas. Adam was also still awake. Mulder's debate with himself was short-lived. The tent was a haven, a place he wanted to be more than anywhere else. Just to be with a friend, near someone who was a friend, he told himself, and tried to ignore the tension/fear/anticipation that had settled in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that, then, he didn't wholly understand. 'Adam?'

He heard the rustle of the sleeping bag from inside the tent. The zip opened and Adam's tousled head poked out.

'Kid? What is it? What's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong. But could I crash with you tonight?'

A shrug. 'If you're sure, kid. Come on in.'

'Thanks,' Mulder said, as he pulled the sleeping bag into the tent after him. 'It's getting kind of noisy over there.'

'Noisy?'

'Herb snores and Saffron and Jacques are all over each other the whole time.'

'Sounds crowded. Did you bring your stuff?'

'My sleeping bag is all. Did I wake you?'

'No. I was just finishing my diary.' Adam moved his own sleeping bag over to the side. 'You feel like running tomorrow?'

'Sure.'

'I'll wake you at six. See if you feel like it then. You settled in?'

'Yeah. I think so.'

'Goodnight then, kid.'

'Goodnight, Adam.' The nightmare that night was one of the worst he'd had for a while. He woke shuddering and sobbing to find Adam gently shaking his shoulder.

'That sounded like a bad one, kid.' Adam said sleepily. 'You OK?'

Mulder felt his heart sink. His subconscious seemed determined to screw this friendship up before it was even a week old. 'Yeah. Just a nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you up. Herb usually sleeps right through them.'

There was concern in Adam's face, and Mulder felt his stomach knot. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No,' Mulder said emotionlessly. 'It's OK. It was just a nightmare.'

'Kid, I've been there too. I know what it's like. There was a time when I averaged about two hours' sleep a night.' A pause. Was it about your sister?'

Mulder shivered. 'Not right now, ok?'

'Ok. Do you think you can get back to sleep?'

'I... yeah. Probably.'

Adam ran a hand through his hair. 'In other words, no.'

'Usually I just read until the morning,' Mulder admitted.

'OK, kid. Sit up.'

Mulder sleepily pulled himself halfway up out of his sleeping bag. His head ached from the tears. 'Facing away from me. That's right.'

'What are you going to...?'

'Shh, Mulder. I'm going to try to lose some of this tension.'

The strong hands touched his back, and he jerked away involuntarily. 'Relax, kid.'

Mulder realised that he was shivering, and that his jaw was clenched. Adam lay both hands on his shoulders and held them there for a moment, without moving them.

'I learned this in Tibet,' he said conversationally. 'It's an ancient form of kundalini yoga.'

'You've been to Tibet?'

'Yeah. Of course ideally we'd have some sandalwood incense...'

'That has some kind of ritual significance, right?' Mulder managed.

'Not really. I just like the way it smells.'

Mulder bit back a shaky laugh. 'Tell me about Tibet.'

'It's peaceful there. Nothing's really changed in thousands of years. The same food, the same way of farming. The same monasteries...'

'Hold on. Kundalini yoga? You mean like tantric sex kundalini yoga?'

'A Buddhist monk taught me this,' Adam said, with amusement in his voice. 'If he knew tantric sex he wasn't letting on.'

'Gee, that's a relief,' Mulder said, rather aimlessly. He felt his eyes fall shut and found it an effort force them open again.

The hands moved across to his shoulders, gently forcing them to relax, raising a pleasant ache in tensed muscles. It felt... comfortable. Good.

After a minute or so Mulder felt his head nod forward, then again.

'Feels nice,' he murmured.

'Lay down.' Adam commanded. 'You want me to keep doing this for a while?'

'Yeah...' Mulder managed. 'Adam, I'm sorry I woke you...'

'Like I said, I've been there. Stop worrying. Now, close your eyes.'

Mulder closed his eyes. He was asleep again in seconds.

***

It shook Mulder a little, even seventeen years on, how easily he'd come to trust the other man. He knew himself, knew how rare it was for him to let anyone come close. Trust was not in his nature, not even back then, as a teenager - he'd been hurt, badly let down, too many times. But Adam... *You had no idea what you did to me, just by being who you were. You were clever and funny and cynical and beautiful and utterly self-sufficient, and you liked me. From the first time I saw you, I never had a fucking chance.* It was sobering, to realise that this was a relationship he hadn't been able to get over in almost eighteen years. He looked over at Scully, deeply asleep beneath her inadequate airline blanket, head, almost resting on his shoulder. It was sobering too to realise that Scully and maybe Skinner were the only people he'd been able to allow as close to him in all that time.

***

July 14 1979 4.30pm

Shopping in Portland the next day had been a strained affair. Most of the others had piled into Keefe's van, but Mulder had ended up in Herb's car with only his cousin for company. Herb had maintained a grim and disapproving silence for most of the journey both to Portland and back. It wasn't until Herb's car pulled up the muddy track towards the camp again that his cousin brought up the topic of his change of sleeping quarters.

'You know, Fox,' Herb said grimly. 'Moving in with him. That was a real stupid move.'

Mulder sighed. 'Herb, I like him. He's a nice guy.'

'Fox, there's stuff you don't understand. A kid like you. There's guys who... you know... go for that.'

'A kid like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean, Herb?'

'I mean one day you're going to wake up and find you're not the only one in your sleeping bag. Get my drift?'

Mulder rolled his eyes. 'Herb, we've been here a week. If he was going to make a pass at me I think he'd have done it by now.'

'Fox, I think I'm going to have to call your dad.'

For a moment Mulder was speechless with shock and betrayal. 'Christ, Herb, even you're not that much of a creep,' he said in disbelief.

'Fox, I don't think you understand what kind of trouble you're lining up for yourself,' Herb said sternly.

'The guy's my friend, Herb! I like him! That's all!'

'It's for your own good, Fox,' Herb said with a kind of self-righteous smugness.

'Jesus Christ, Herb,' Mulder said. He shook his head. 'You really are a piece of work.'

'This is for your own good, Fox. You move back out of his tent, or I'll call your dad.'

'You know something, Herb? Fuck you. Stop the car. I'll walk the rest of the way back.'

'Fox...'

'And don't call me Fox.' Mulder said between gritted teeth.

'Stop the car. I mean it.'

'Fox...'

'Stop the fucking car, Herb! And don't call me Fox!'

All in all, it was probably one of the more satisfying moments of his life, although whether it would have been more satisfying if they'd been five miles back along the road rather than two hundred yards outside the camp entrance, Mulder didn't know. He didn't care, either. He pulled his rucksack out from the back seat and slammed the door. Herb drove on without looking back, and Mulder followed on after him. 'Hey, Adam. I got your beer. Adam?'

He ducked into the little tent and narrowed his eyes. Almost everything except for the sleeping bag and a couple of books had been packed away into bags and boxes.

'Here, kid. I was just packing some stuff up in the car.'

'You're leaving?' That sounded more shocked than Mulder had really wanted it to.

Adam nodded. 'I had an argument with Drake. so I'm heading off. It's his place, after all.'

'So you're just going? Just like that?' Anger now, and betrayal. Why was he so lousy at hiding his feelings?

Adam nodded and packed the last of the books in the backpack. 'Yes. Tomorrow morning. There's no point in dragging it out.'

'What did you argue about? Is there anything...'

The dark eyes met his, warning him: *let it go, kid*. 'It was just something personal. I'm not proving anything by staying. It's time to move on.'

The decision was instantaneous. Mulder spoke the words without hesitation. 'Can I come with you?'

Adam didn't seem that surprised by the request. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I'm sure. If you leave me here I'll go crazy by the end of the week.'

'You haven't even asked me where I'm going.'

'I don't care. Just as long as it's not here.'

Adam's eyes narrowed at the vehemence in his voice. 'Did something happen, Mulder?'

Mulder took a breath. 'No. It's just like I said. I don't want to stay here either. Where are you going?'

'I didn't have any real plans. I was just going to drive until I found somewhere else to camp. I've still got a lot of reading to catch up on'

'Do you think you'd be able to catch up on your reading in northern Vermont?'

'Why there?'

Mulder flushed. 'I know it sounds kind of stupid but I read about some UFO sightings up in the Green Mountains, near the Canadian border. It sounded kind of cool, but it's pretty remote.'

'Remote. Sounds good. Let's do it.'

Mulder hesitated for a moment, then said: 'Adam, if you don't want me along, all you have to do is say. I won't mind.'

Adam gave him an unfathomable look. 'Kid, if I hadn't wanted you along I wouldn't have waited around until you got back. Now you'd better go and pack. We're leaving early.'

****

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Mulder frowned. He'd never worked out what that argument had been about and had never been able to persuade Adam to tell him. His best guess was that Adam had argued with Jacques, or more likely Herb, and fallen foul of Drake's no-fight rule. Whatever it had been about, it was hard to imagine any kind of argument that would inspire one participant to hunt down and kill another after eighteen years. He sighed. This whole thing was a mess.

*****

Herb started on the beer even earlier than usual that afternoon, and was joined by most of the others. Both their argument and the fact that Adam was leaving seemed to have become common knowledge. Naomi was giving him wide-eyed, understanding looks. Saffron kept frowning at him and making little faces, although what they were intended to convey was uncertain. Drake seemed indifferent. Herb didn't even look at him. It all got tired fast. Making his excuses, he left them to it, and found Adam stowing the last of his gear.

They retrieved the last of the beer from the tent and walked until they found a stony little bay at the edge of the lake and sat together on the soft grass under the trees. A faintly herbal smell drifted through the trees towards then, and Adam shook his head and grinned.

'Where the hell do you get pot from out here?' he asked, with amused disgust.

'Maine's not exactly the drugs capital of America,' Mulder agreed. He still felt a little subdued.

'Maybe some of the racoons around here are pushers. Do you want a beer, kid?'

'Sure. Why do you keep calling me kid, anyway?'

'Because I hate calling you Mulder and you hate being called Fox. I've got to call you something.'

'There must be something better than 'kid'.'

'I'm easy. What do you want me to call you?'

Mulder grinned. 'Really, I'm fine with Mulder.'

Adam pulled two cans of beer from the six pack, and found a home for the rest in the shallows of the lake, leaving them to cool. 'I hate calling you Mulder. It sounds as though we're in the army.'

'Were you ever in the army?'

'Once. I bought myself out after a couple of months.'

'You resigned from the army? Why?'

'I got sick of people calling me 'Pierson'.'

Mulder looked up at him suspiciously, and caught his grin.

'Was that true? Were you in the army?'

Adam smiled. 'No, kid. What it boils down to is killing other people for a living and getting

shouted at by men with sloping foreheads. It just wasn't for me.'

'Are you a pacifist, then?'

'Hah. People who think if we understood each other, we could all just get along? They're just kidding themselves. I'm not a pacifist. It's personally killing people I'm opposed to. That and having other people try to kill me, of course. You?'

'I guess I'd fight if I had to. If there was a draft or something, I mean. I've never really thought about it.'

'I hope you never really have to, kid.'

'But wouldn't you fight? If it was about something important enough, I mean.'

'Over and above saving my own skin?'

'Yeah.'

'I don't know, kid. Once, maybe. Now I just don't know any more.'

For a little while they sat in silence.

Mulder said softly: 'I don't think you're half as cynical as you say you are. I think you'd fight, if you found the right reason.'

'Maybe, kid. It would have to be a pretty damn good reason.' To break the awkwardness he flipped the metal cap from his beer off into the trees and took a long swallow.

'Have you ever tried smoking grass?' Mulder asked, a little embarrassed, trying to change the subject.

Adam smiled as he sprawled comfortably back beside Mulder.

'Couple of times. You wanted to try it? It's not worth it, kid. You'd be better off sticking to beer.'

'I was just curious,' Mulder admitted. 'There are a lot of things I want to try, even if it's just once.'

'We can probably get some grass if you're that curious. I'm warning you now, though, it's overrated.'

They sat in silence for a while. Then Adam said: 'So what did you and Herb argue about?' Mulder glanced across at him sharply, but Adam was looking up into darkening sky.

'I guess walking back into camp was kind of a give-away,' he said eventually.

'Did he throw you out of the car?' Adam asked, just a little too casually.

'No. I told him to stop. He said...' he stopped, not certain how to continue.

Adam shifted beside him. 'Don't worry kid. I can guess. I had an argument with him a couple of days ago, when you were in Portland. Jacques fed him some line of crap and now he doesn't think my intentions towards you are honourable.'

'He... you didn't say anything.'

'I didn't think it meant anything. It doesn't mean anything. You shouldn't let him get under your skin, kid.'

'He said that he'd call my dad,' Mulder let his head fall back. 'I don't need that now,' he said quietly. 'I really don't need that now.'

Adam sighed. 'It's official then.'

'What?'

'Herb's an asshole.'

'Adam, I'm sorry all this happened. I don't know why Herb's being such a slimeball.'

Adam stood and retrieved two more beers from the lake. 'He's an asshole - that's his problem. Are you still OK to come with me tomorrow?'

'Yeah. There's no reason to stay here.'

'I meant after what Herb said.'

'Right now I don't give a fuck what Herb thinks.'

He saw a smile flicker around Adam's mouth for a second. 'Way to go, kid. Have another beer.'

'Thanks.' He lay back and closed his eyes. 'Why does it have to be so hard?'

'What, kid?'

'Doing what everybody expects. Doing what everybody wants. Sometimes.. sometimes I think what it would have been like if I'd been like everyone else. If I wasn't this screwed up. I analyse stuff, all the time. Other people just get on with things. I feel like.. like everyone else knows what to do and I'm just faking it.'

'Kid, you just described the human condition,' Adam said with a shrug. 'Like I said, you've just got to relax and go with who you are. Trust me on that.'

'Yeah. I'm sorry,' Mulder said ruefully. He looked over at Adam and felt a sudden rush of affection for the older man. He smiled. 'I'm glad you waited around today.'

'You think I'd have left you here with this lot?'

'I'm only half way through your Thomas Covenant books,' Mulder said, his face deadpan.

'Sounds like I really am stuck with you for the rest of the summer.'

'Do you mind? I mean really?'

'You're good company, Mulder. I like you. I like talking to you. I like you being around. Just stop worrying about it.' He looked up abruptly.

'What?'

'Oh nothing. I thought I felt some rain.'

'Uh guys?'

Mulder looked round, surprised at the interruption.

'Rebecca?' Adam asked, sounding faintly irritated. 'What is it?'

'We kinda thought we'd head out and find a bar somewhere. You guys want to come?'

'I'd better finish packing, Rebecca,' Adam said. 'But thanks for asking.'

'Mulder?' Rebecca asked, rather cautiously.

'I've got to sort my stuff out too,' Mulder said.

'Are you going in the morning as well?' Rebecca asked curiously.

'I don't know. I haven't decided yet.'

'You know, Herb cares about you, Mulder. In his own way.'

'Well, thanks for sharing that with us,' Adam said, rather too sweetly.

Rebecca looked slightly affronted, then shrugged. 'Well, you guys have a good time. I expect we'll be back late. Maybe I'll see you in the morning. Hope you don't get rained on.'

A few fat drops fell onto the dry leaf litter as she left, building slowly up to a steady pattering. 'We better take this show inside, kid,' Adam said. Two damp hours later, the rain beat furiously on the sides of the tent. Mulder lay on his bedroll in the close, blue darkness and tried to relax. Nearby lightning illuminated the sides of the tent to almost neon brightness for a fraction of a second. The thunder that followed left no room for any other sound.

'It's getting worse,' Mulder said, more nervously than he'd intended.

'We're OK here,' Adam said lazily. 'We're too low for lightning to be a problem and on this side of the slope there shouldn't be any flash flooding.'

'I know. Storms just make me kind of edgy.'

Beside him Adam stretched sinuously, his sweater riding up to show an inch of two of pale skin. 'Storms make me feel alive. There's so much power in the air. I feel as though I'm itching under my skin...'

Another bolt of lightning shattered the darkness. 'Gods,' Adam murmured, when the following roll of thunder died away. 'I have got to be out in this.'

'Adam, pretty much the only dry clothes we have are the ones we're wearing,' Mulder said, in a desperate attempt to sound reasonable. The only possible reason he could conceive for being out in weather like this involved making a beeline for the nearest place with four walls and a roof. Adam gave him a grin that could only be described as feral.

'Who said anything about clothes?'

Mulder felt his jaw drop. 'You're joking, right? What if someone comes?'

'Out here? In this?' Adam asked. His voice was slightly muffled - he was pulling his sweater roughly over his head. 'Mulder... Damn sleeves... Mulder, no-one in their right mind would be out in a storm like this.'

'Yeah,' Mulder muttered. 'I rest my case.'

'Kid, you have got to lighten up,' Adam said. He pulled his boots off without bothering to unlace them. 'You coming?'

'Wait a minute... you expect me to go out there with you?'

'I promise you, Mulder, it's going to be incredible,' Adam said. He tugged his jeans off awkwardly in the confined space. 'The rain on your skin, the electricity in the air...'

'You have got to be kidding me.'

'Come on, Mulder,' Adam said. 'Live a little.' He dived out of the tent and Mulder, who had studiously been looking at his feet, caught a flash of white skin out of the corner of his eye.

The tent door flapped and rattled in the wind. Mulder pulled it shut without looking outside. He didn't want to look. OK, so he was kidding himself. He did want to look. He wanted to look a lot, he realised, and he wanted to touch. *Christ, Mulder, what a screw-up you are,* he thought miserably. From outside he heard a whoop of joy, then there was another strike of lightning, very close, followed a split second later by a crack of thunder that cut all sound off. Then there was silence. Mulder swallowed. He couldn't hear anything except the rain. Swearing softly and bitterly under his breath, he pulled on his coat and grabbed his cheap flashlight. He didn't know what good it would be in the darkness outside - it was barely strong enough to read by - but it was better than nothing.

The rain against his hood almost deafened him and the wind wrenched the branches from side to side above him. He couldn't see Adam. He swore again, although he could hardly hear himself The dim, yellow beam of the flashlight managed to illuminate the ground for about two feet in front of him. The rest was darkness.

'Adam, where the fuck are you?' he muttered furiously. He caught a flash of white through the trees, towards the lake...

The loose t-shirts, the sweaters, had hidden a body that was less slender than it looked. Adam was not muscular, not exactly, but his body looked firm and smooth. His skin was pale and his wet hair seemed shockingly dark in contrast. Slender, athletic, beautiful. Face turned up towards the rain. He must have made a noise then. Adam turned and saw him.

A desperate little voice in Mulder's head was telling him that this would be a good moment for a dry remark, but his brain seemed to have run out of ideas. Only one thing was certain. There was *no way* he could let Adam see him naked now. Adam walked slowly towards him until they stood face to face. Mulder realised that somehow he had backed himself against a tree. He stood there, frozen.

'Mulder, why are you still dressed?' Adam asked softly. He took the zip fastener of Mulder's coat in one hand and slowly, deliberately, began to pull it down. He didn't look at Mulder's face, just down at the zipper, with the kind of concentration usually reserved for carrying out brain surgery on heads of state. Mulder swallowed and tried not to think about where Adam's hand was going to stop when the zipper ran out. It was a losing battle.

*I want you to stop.* How hard could those words be to say? Not difficult at all, assuming, of course, that you were still in control of your higher brain functions. Right now, however, speech was going to be a problem and Mulder's IQ was descending at about the same rate as the fastener. His sex drive, tired of lurking neglected and ignored on the fringes of his mind, had resorted to paramilitary tactics and was holding his central nervous system hostage. It was with an incredible sense of relief that he surrendered to its demands and raised a hand to Adam's face, then to the spiky softness of his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer. He almost sobbed as Adam's mouth neared his own, so close now that he felt rather than saw the lips curve in a satisfied smile.

Adam said, so softly that Mulder could hardly make it out over the noise of the rain: 'I wanted to taste this mouth the first time I saw you.' He raised a hand and rubbed his thumb roughly across Mulder's lower lip as his other hand came round to stroke the dark hair, suddenly very gentle . Mulder moved his face towards Adam's, but drew back a little when their noses bumped.

He said 'Ow...' and again felt rather than saw the other's smile.

The older man's hand traced a path down his face. Then Adam cupped his chin, angled his own face, and touched his lips once lightly to Mulder's, then again. Somewhere above them the storm was rolling away across the hills. Adam drew back a little and looked at him calmly and gravely.

'Mulder... Are you all right with this?'

Words failed him, so he leant forward instead and pressed his mouth inexpertly against the other man's, and felt Adam's lips part beneath his. It was a moment he would remember with incredible clarity.

The taste of Adam's mouth, apples and beer and lip balm. The smell of the rain-soaked woods with the fainter scent of sweat and insect repellent below it. The noise of the last of the rain falling through the trees and pattering onto leaf litter. The way the nylon of his coat rustled in protest as Adam's arms came around his shoulders. The sound of his heart beating, filling his ears. Then there was the feeling of the tree bark, rough against his back, even through his clothes, and Adam's warmth, and the feel of his skin, warm and slick with the rain. The heat of his mouth. Dear God, Adam's tongue inside his mouth. How was it that he could feel that all through his body? He heard himself moan under the kiss, and felt his own easy surrender in the other's arms. When Adam broke the kiss, he gasped at the loss.

'You're still overdressed,' Adam said. They stood very close together, foreheads still touching. Adam's breath was warm on his face.

'What if one of the others sees us?' Mulder managed to say. He could still taste the other in his mouth. He wanted that taste again, so badly.

'Out here? In this? Anyway, what the hell does it matter if they do see us?'

Mulder drew back a little. 'I think Herb'll tell dad...' A knot of fear clenched inside him at the thought of what would happen then. It must have shown in his face or his voice. In Adam's eyes he saw sudden comprehension and a spark of anger. He closed his eyes, felt himself shiver.

Adam said softly. 'It's OK. This isn't any of their business. Tomorrow we'll be out of here.'

'What about tonight?'

'We'll see the headlights if any of them come back early. It'll be OK.'

'Adam... Adam, anything you want to do to me will be OK, but I've never...'

'Shhhh. I know. I know. It's all right.' In the end it had been that simple. They made love in the almost darkness, on the slippery nylon of their sleeping bags. Mostly just kissing and touching each other. Warm and sweet, hardly a surrender at all. Just Adam learning him, the ways he wanted to be touched, and then guiding his own, inexpert hands. The first time he came, he cried. Afterwards Adam held him.

'You OK, Mulder? Did I hurt you?'

'I... I didn't know it was going to be like that. I was so scared...' There was a kind of wonder in his voice. In the darkness beside him he heard Adam make a soft, amused little noise.

'Better or worse than you thought?'

'Why ask the question when you already know the answer,' Mulder said. He moved closer into Adam and felt the arms tighten around him. He couldn't remember another time in his life when he'd felt this happy. They lay silently for a little while.

'I don't want this to end,' Mulder whispered into the darkness. It was so hard to let the words escape when he had always kept his needs silent and locked away. Something bitter inside him mocked the words - the slowly fading ghosts of his miserable teenage years. *In your dreams, Mulder. Why would he want a screw-up like you? He's only doing this because he's sorry for you.*

'Nobody said it had to,' Adam said. He sounded on the very edge of sleep. Mulder moved so his face rested against the short, soft hair. He lay awake for a little while longer, getting used to the strange and wonderful feeling of a warm, breathing body next to his own. Sleep came eventually, of course, and that night, again, there were no nightmares.

*****

On the plane towards Paris, Mulder smiled at the memory of that night. As first times went, it probably didn't get much better than that. Adam had been gentle and considerate - not something he could say about many of his later lovers. The fact that it had been a guy who'd taken his virginity hadn't bothered him as much as he'd always thought it would have. Somewhere, deep inside him, he'd always known what he was. It was as simple as that, and the confirmation had been a relief, not a shock.

*****

July 15 1979 6.05am

The next day they finished packing and left the camp in Adam's battered stationwagon at first light, before anyone else was awake. To Mulder it felt like an escape, furtive and somehow exhilarating. He shifted restlessly in his seat as the stationwagon crawled and bumped along the mud track.

'This feels so weird. Great but really weird.'

Adam smiled beside him. 'Feels like we're getting away. Did you leave a note for Herb?'

'You think I should have done?'

'It might have been an idea. We could go back..'

'Oh no,' Mulder said, with considerable emphasis. 'I'm never going back to that camp. I'm never even coming back to Maine again.'

'Maine has been forever tainted for you, huh?'

'Yeah. Maybe that's being unfair. I'm sure it has its good points...'

'Trees. Lakes. Moose. LL Bean. The highest ratio of lobster related souvenirs to people in the entire US...'

'I'm never coming back here again.'

Adam shrugged. 'I guess it's lucky there's another 51 states left for you to hang out in. Have you got the map?'

'We don't turn off this road for another eighteen miles. What if Herb comes after us?'

'He's not even going to be awake for another four or five hours. He's going to have a hard time finding us with that kind of head start.'

'Unless one of the others wakes him. Can we drive faster?'

'As long as it's understood you're paying any speeding tickets.'

Mulder grinned suddenly. 'I just thought. I've never made out on the back seat of a car either.'

'I thought you were in a hurry. We're never going to get to Vermont if we keep stopping.'

'Ok. But let's drive faster.'

They drove faster.

July 16 - Early September 1979

From Maine to Vermont - in the end they took it slowly, and spent a night in a motel on the way. As they travelled west the countryside grew wilder and more beautiful. More peaceful too. They stayed away from the tourist trails, travelling on the back roads instead, past lonely farms and gas stations, until even those ran out, as they turned north, towards Quebec, on roads that grew narrower and quieter until they became little more than tracks. They found the place that Mulder had read about, or somewhere within fifty miles of it, anyway. Mulder didn't care. It was huge, lonely and beautiful, like a place out of a dream. But now there were the things that itched at him, just a couple of things that hadn't added up. The first, when he'd been unpacking:

'Christ, what is this?'

'What, Mulder?'

'Wrapped in your spare sleeping bag... some kind of sword...'

'Oh yeah. I got it in an estate sale just after I got here. It's only a reproduction but it's a pretty good one.'

'It looks old... Jesus, it's razor sharp!'

'That's why it stays wrapped up. Did you cut yourself?'

'Just my thumb.'

'Hold on. I think there's a first aid kit somewhere in this car. It was that sharp when I bought it. I didn't have time to take the edge off.'

'You sound like you know a lot about swords.'

'Nah, not really. Just interested in that period in history. I thought it would look good hanging on my wall. Sometimes I do some martial arts. Kenjetsu, that stuff.'

'Christ, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near when you were swinging that thing around.'

'That's kind of the point...'

***

Too much explanation, Mulder's FBI instincts told him. Too casual. And Adam had a sword, a razor sharp sword, which he knew how to use. Penniless grad students didn't go to estate sales and buy swords. And if they did, they showed them around to other guys, they didn't hide them deep in the recesses of their stationwagons. Shit.

***

The second thing that bothered him had been a couple of days later. A perfect evening, Mulder remembered, when they climbed the mountainside to watch the skies. It was quiet, but not truly silent. The distant noises of the evening birds rose from the darkening forest below, and the sound of the wind through the pines. There was no sign of any other human anywhere around them, only forest and mountain. They sat together in silence for a moment, and watched the sky. After a while Adam pulled a blanket from his pack.

'You brought that all the way up here?'

'We may as well be comfortable, kid. It's not going to get any warmer.'

The blanket was large enough to wrap around two people, but only if they sat close together. Adam sat against his pack, and Mulder lay back against him, head resting on his shoulder. Adam's arms came around him loosely, wrapping them both in the blanket. Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing against the warmth of his friend's body.

'Adam, this is just so great,' he said after a while.

'Yeah, I know.'

'Adam?'

'Yes?'

'We still haven't... you know... Fucked.' He squirmed against Adam and smiled as the arms came around him a little tighter.

'Kid, we're not exactly equipped for anything like that at the moment..'

'We could go and find a drugstore.'

'It's going to be quite a trek to the nearest all-night drugstore.'

'We could take the car.'

'I think we're talking Boston here, Mulder.'

'Oh.'

Adam smiled and kissed the top of Mulder's head, where the dark hair was ruffling in the cool breeze. The last of the sunlight bathed them both in gold. Above them the sky was deep blue, darkening towards the east.

'Adam?'

'Yeah?'

'You'd be the first. I guess you already know that. But.. I'd be safe for you.'

'I know. And there's nothing you're going to catch from me, but I don't want to rush things.. Anyhow, if we do that we're going to need lube as well as condoms.'

'Lube?' Mulder said uncertainly. 'Sounds like something you use to fix up your car with.'

Adam kissed him again. 'Yeah, I guess it does,' he said easily.

'I know it hurts...' Mulder said. He couldn't quite keep his voice even.

'I wouldn't hurt you. Trust me.'

They sat in a comfortable silence and watched the sun go down. In the valley a long way below the lights of a car passed down the road.

'Someone got pretty lost,' Mulder commented. 'First car I've seen all week.'

'Hmm?' Adam said sleepily from just behind him.

'A car. Down on the valley road.'

Adam sat up abruptly. 'Where's he heading?'

'Towards us, I guess.'

'There's nothing here except us and our campsite. Can you see what kind of car it is?' Mulder squinted into the trees and shook his head.

'Too far away yet.'

Adam's eyes narrowed. 'I'd better get back down, kid. It might not be anything, but it could be trouble. Just wait up here.'

'No way. I'm coming with you.'

'Then if anything happens, just stay out of sight.' Twenty minutes later they ran back into their tiny campsite. Adam moved quickly and surely over the rocks, even through the darkness of the evening, and so arrived first. Mulder came behind, more cautiously. The other car had stopped beside Adam's, its lights still shining into the trees. As they approached the hiss of a police radio cut through the noises of the forest.

Adam slowed as he neared the camp and walked out through the trees, giving the two patrolmen there plenty of time to see and hear him. From behind him Mulder saw his friend's hand move in a quickly suppressed gesture he hadn't recognised then.

***

He knew it now, though - the movement of hand towards weapon. Shit shit shit.

***

'You Adam Pierson?' one of the men asked. The man who spoke was the younger. He seemed nervous. The other was older, with a tired, friendly face and a balding head.

'Uh.. yeah. What's the problem, officer?'

'We got a missing persons report on a Fox Mulder, last seen being driven away in your car. Is he here?'

Mulder came out of the trees behind Adam, still breathless.

'I'm here. What's going on?'

Adam shrugged. 'Someone reported you missing, kid. You did call your parents, didn't you?'

'I left a message on my mom's answering machine a couple of days back,' Mulder said.

'The report was filed by a Herbert Jenks,' the older patrolman said.

'Herb?'

Adam raised his eyes to the heavens. 'Now why aren't I surprised?'

'You're here of your own free will, Mr Mulder?'

'Uh... yeah. Of course.' Mulder said, in genuine bewilderment.

'May I talk with you privately, Mr Mulder?'

'Why?' Mulder asked, a little hotly.

'Kid, there's no need to make an issue out of it,' Adam said, spreading his hands. 'I'll wait over by the car.' It had taken about half an hour for explanations to be made to the satisfaction of both cops.

Mulder stood beside him as they watched the police car head back down the dirt track. He said uncertainly: 'Adam, I'm sorry. I can't believe Herb did that.'

'It's not a problem, kid. Really.'

'He told them you'd.. you know. Seduced me or something.'

'Little did they know, huh?' Adam said, still watching the car depart with narrowed eyes.

'I told them nothing happened.'

Adam sighed. 'Kid, they were just concerned, that's all. Giving you a way out if you needed it.'

'Yeah. I guess so.'

'C'mon. Let's get the fire started. It's too cold to head back up now.'

'Still got that blanket?' Mulder asked.

'Maybe that beer's cooled down by now,' Adam mused contentedly.

***

And that had been it, Mulder thought. Panic over. At the time, of course, he'd been pissed at Herb, and humiliated, but that had passed. With hindsight, he realised that Herb had probably been right to have worried, despite his overreaction. Mulder himself had dealt with far too many missing persons cases that had started exactly the same way. He knew and trusted Adam, but Adam hadn't told him one damn thing about himself. And now, eighteen years later, the doubts and fears were starting to rise again. Adam had dealt with the police car pretty calmly. Of course he had. It was obvious now that he'd been expecting something worse, otherwise he wouldn't have tried to leave Mulder behind.

Why would a grad student from Paris choose to spend the summer in a dump like Drake's commune? Because he was in trouble. Because he was hiding from something, or someone. The cop in the diner notwithstanding it didn't have anything to do with the law, but maybe it had a lot to do with the sword that had been so conveniently explained away. Mulder sighed. His head was thick from lack of sleep. Maybe things would seem clearer in the morning their plane was hurtling towards at a speed of hundreds of miles an hour.

****

They'd stayed in the mountains for about a week, then headed back down through the Green Mountains, back towards Massachusetts, camping in the woods or beside rivers, eating in diners, sleeping with two bags zipped together. The sex had been infrequent, but when it happened, very sweet. In the end, they hadn't made love. It would have been too much, too intense, for what they had - a relationship more about friendship and companionship than about passion. And in the end September came; too quickly. After far too little time, they were travelling back down the familiar roads towards Martha's Vineyard. Gas stations and stores that in a former life, he'd passed almost every day. Where his dad had stopped for gas, where his mom had gone shopping. The K-mart where he'd almost ended up spending the summer working. The streets he'd ridden along on his bicycle, doing his paper round. All different now, and somehow smaller. He'd outgrown them. He was ready for something new. 'You're really getting a flight back tomorrow?' he asked Adam, after a silence that had lasted several miles.

'Yeah. Tomorrow evening. Out of La Guardia.'

'I didn't realise you had to go so soon. You should have said something. I'm sure mom wouldn't mind if you wanted to stay tonight.'

'I should get back to New York today.' Adam gave him a sideways smile, to ease the pain of that small rejection. 'But thanks for the offer.'

'Will you write to me?'

'I don't know where I'm going to be. That's why I need to get back so early. To find a place to stay.'

'When I get an address in halls, I'll write to you. Care of the university, I mean.'

'I'll look forward to it.' Adam gave him a sidelong look. 'You going to be OK, kid?'

'Yeah. I think so.'

'You'll be fine.'

He wanted them to kiss, but in Martha's Vineyard in 1979 guys didn't kiss, at all. Not that they did in 1997 either. A brief, tight embrace was all Mulder dared, and then he was offloading his bags onto the drive while his mom watched from the door of the house, looking older and more tired than he remembered. His dad drove up about ten minutes later. They didn't invite Adam in, and that made Mulder angry. In his mind he glossed over the cold, painful argument that had followed when Adam had driven away, down a street green with suburban leaves and filled with bird song. No point in bringing up that old pain. Something had changed irrevocably between himself and his parents, who had seemed both more united that they had been when he had left and somehow a little afraid of him. And the old arguments and the old blackmail didn't work on him as well as they once had, and he knew from that moment on that his choices were going to be his own and not father's any more.

A day or so later, passing a used car lot on the edge of town, he saw the stationwagon for sale and guessed that Adam must have taken the bus back to New York. He'd stood looking at it for a while, and wondered vaguely how Adam had shipped all his junk because there was no way he could have taken it as hand luggage, all the while waiting for the hard knot that had risen in his chest to ease away again.

He knew, of course, that Adam had been bored, and had seen his vulnerability and his need and had liked him, a little, then more than a little. And they'd found pleasure and even joy in each other's company, and whatever the pain of parting, Mulder knew that the friendship at least had been real, and something special. Mulder had always known that he was damaged goods, but with Adam it hadn't mattered. He hadn't cared. And there was perhaps a week after Mulder returned home when he hadn't been able to sleep, when the world seemed empty without the other's face, his voice, the touch of his hand, when he missed him almost every hour of every day. If Samantha had been there he would have told her, but now there was no-one he could tell, so he kept it locked deep inside him. His mind shied away from the word 'love', but part of him knew that being in love and then losing someone had to feel something like this.

Then, of course, two weeks later he stood in the concourse at Heathrow airport, rucksack heavy on his back, fumbling with unfamiliar currency and dates written in a different order and the concept of slow fast food. Lost in the slightly frightening but not entirely unpleasant feeling of being a stranger alone in a new land. Then there had been Oxford, and a whole new world of distractions and changes. His plans to go to Paris and find Adam had been curtailed, partly by a lack of money, partly by a lack of time and partly by the fear that Adam didn't want to be found.

So, he'd sent a postcard, care of the University of Paris. It was never answered, but part of him had never stopped hoping that one day it would be.

And now he was on the flight that maybe he should have taken eighteen years ago, descending through the sky towards Aeroport Orly, Paris. Two headless bodies, too many swords, a hippy commune in Maine and the first guy he'd ever loved. He was damned if he could join the dots on this one.

* * *

Rapture 3: We'll always have Paris  
by Wombat  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: Mulder/Methos  
FEEDBACK:   
WEBSITE: http://dialspace.dial.pipex.com/town/drive/xsi35/warning.html  
DISTRIBUTION: The more the merrier, but ask first.  
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine, but I'm not getting paid, and that has to count for something.  
SUMMARY: The boys have a reunion in the most romantic city in the world, but guess what, it all goes horribly wrong... 

* * *

Rapture 3: We'll always have Paris

It was early morning, chilly and damp, when they arrived in France after a shortened, and in Mulder's case sleepless, night in the air. The Surete officer who waited for them on the runway tarmac was a man named Inspector Raymond Lafayette. Tall, blond, handsome, good-natured and speaking almost perfect English, he greeted a dishevelled Scully by kissing her hand. Mulder found himself disliking the man more by the moment - the feeling was only aggravated by the fact that there was little or nothing about him to actually disapprove of.

Three hours later Orly airport was a fleeting memory. They drove along almost deserted roads that took them deep into Brittany, through a region which Mulder was amused to discover was called Maine, through the cathedral city of Chartres, Le Mans and a half-dozen sleepy market towns.

'This case must be quite different from what you're used to,' Mulder said, as Lafayette skilfully steered the car around a tractor.

'No. I always get these cases, Agent Mulder,' Lafayette said good-naturedly. 'Last year it was werewolves in the Auvergne, the year before a haunting in a chateau in the Loire valley and an unpleasant business with a man-eating alligator in the sewers of Marseilles. Since the ghost in the Loire, my friends in the Surete have started to call me Lafayette le surnaturel. Translated it means...'

'I think I can guess,' Mulder muttered sourly.

'If you don't mind me saying so,' Scully interrupted, a little more loudly than was necessary, 'Your English is particularly good.'

'Thank you, Agent Scully,' Lafayette said, with a warm and genuine smile that Mulder found deeply irritating. 'I spent three years studying at Cambridge. That was really where I picked up the language. I haven't had much chance to practice since.'

'So what's our schedule?' Mulder interrupted curtly.

'I thought you would wish to see Drake's cottage first,' Lafayette said mildly. 'The murder scene is already almost a week old and the executors wish to take over the estate as soon as possible. That will take the rest of today, I think. Then we will stay overnight in Rennes and return to Paris the next morning. I will brief you at the Prefecture, then I understand from Assistant Director Skinner that there are some leads in Paris you may wish to follow up, Agent Mulder. For Agent Scully, we have delayed Drake's autopsy. It is not quite procedure to leave an autopsy for so long, but your reputation as a pathologist in these cases precedes you.'

Scully simpered - that was the only word for it, Mulder decided.

'If neither of you mind, I think I'll try to catch up on some sleep,' he said bad-temperedly.

'By all means,' Lafayette said, with a sympathetic shrug. Mulder didn't look round. He didn't need to - he could actually feel Scully glaring at the back of his head.

But it was hard to stay in a bad mood for very long. The countryside was beautiful, a patchwork of tiny fields. It was a little less green than England, but fresh from the early morning, with an air of greater warmth and pleasant, dusty neglect. Arch Drake's farmhouse lay at the end of a maze of country roads which wound unpredictably across the rolling countryside. Often there was barely space for a single vehicle, let alone two. The farmhouse itself was at the end of a long, muddy track, set deep in a wooded valley. It was a long, stone building, hundreds of years old, wreathed in climbing roses, with an ancient orchard set behind it. Most of the windows were boarded up and glass glittered on the cobbled courtyard beneath the morning sun and crunched beneath their feet. The doorway to the cottage was low, but the door that stood in it looked modern and out of place. The splintered remains of the original door - thick, dark oak - stood propped against the stone wall beside it. The three stood and looked around in silence. Apart from spring bird song and the noise of the wind in the trees there was no other sound. It seemed impossibly peaceful.

'Drake did not come to this place often,' Lafayette said, breaking the silence. 'It was one of three houses that he owned in Europe. Sometimes he came here for hunting, when the season was right, sometimes he would bring one of his boyfriends here for a weekend. He would spend perhaps a month here every year, no more.'

'Who found him?' Scully asked, narrowing her eyes against the spring sun.

'There is a gardener. He lives in a cottage on the edge of the grounds about a kilometre away. There was a violent storm that night so he came round the next day to see what damage had been caused and found the body when he entered the house to board up the windows.'

'Did he see anything?' Mulder asked absently, looking around at the thick woodlands.

'No,' Lafayette said with a shrug. 'The cottage is in the wrong place to see any cars approach. He would not even have been able to see if the cottage lights were on. Drake valued his privacy. And besides, the gardener is an old man and he drank heavily. I think he was sleeping very soundly when his employer died. The storm woke him, and he went straight back to sleep again'

'Had Drake told him that he'd be coming from Paris?'

'No. He told no-one. Usually he sent one of his staff ahead to make sure that the cottage was in order, but this time he may not have intended to stay.'

'And nobody in any of the nearby villages saw anything either?'

'No, Agent Mulder,' Lafayette said patiently. 'There are many tourists here, from Paris and from England and Belgium. A strange car would not attract any attention. Shall we go inside?'

The rooms of the cottage were low but cosily and expensively furnished. The rough walls were painted white and hung with oils and mounted animal heads. The floors were flagstoned, scattered with rugs. A perfect rustic retreat, but it rang false. It had been carefully designed but there was no sense that it have ever really been lived in. The fight which had claimed Arch Drake's life had left traces in almost every room they passed through, in the overturned furniture, the little spatters on blood on the white walls, the splintered wood of the banister. The fight had been carried upstairs, and had ended there. Drake's body had been found in the bedroom.

The room was palatial, but the linen on the four poster bed was stiff and brown with blood. The debris of a crime scene - smudges of fingerprint powder on the door, plastic sheeting, crime scene seals in a different language - seemed both alien and familiar. The killing had been a week before and the body was long gone, but the words in blood on the wall were there still, dark brown and flaking - "COME AND SEE". For a moment the three of them stood without speaking. Scully finally broke the silence.

'The writing is different,' she said. 'It looks almost as if it was written by a child. This wasn't written by the same person as Naomi Redburg's killer.'

'Oui,' Lafayette agreed cheerfully. 'Yes, Agent Scully. If it were not for the graffiti we would not have connected these crimes at all. Certainly there are two different killers involved. The weapon is different. In San Francisco the blade was razor sharp. Here, not as sharp, a thicker, heavier blade. There, no fight. The woman in San Francisco was overpowered first. Here, they fought with their swords in every room in the house. The American woman's killer entered her house very carefully, leaving no forensic evidence. Here the door is broken down.'

'The San Francisco killing was in a built up area,' Mulder said. 'This is an isolated farmhouse.'

'Oui,' Lafayette agreed amiably. 'Yes. But still. A man who is so careful... it becomes a habit. He does not suddenly start to take risks. Almost certainly two different people have carried out these crimes.'

Mulder nodded, as if the answer was no less than he'd expected.

'I understand, Agent Mulder, that Monsieur Drake was a friend of yours?' Lafayette asked sympathetically.

'I knew him for a little while but it was a long time ago,' Mulder said without emotion.

'And you knew the American woman too?'

'Yes. Again, it was a long time ago.'

'And you do not know who would want to kill them?'

'I can't remember anything that would explain these deaths,' Mulder said. 'I wish that I could. Neither of them deserved this.' He looked around the room again. 'These lightbulbs. Are they new?'

'Yes, Agent Mulder. How did you know?'

Mulder knelt and picked a tiny fragment from the thick carpet.

'There's still some glass in the rug. This isn't from the window. Your people must have missed it when they cleared up.'

'All the lightbulbs in the house were shattered, Agent Mulder. Everything electrical was destroyed. The electrical company believes that the lightning from the storm must have struck the pylon a little way up the valley.'

'And all the windows in this room were blown outwards.'

'Again, yes. It seems strange. Our forensics team suggested that the damage may have been caused by the fight. It seems unlikely, but there is no other explanation.'

'I think there's another explanation. We just don't know what it is yet.'

'If you say so, Agent Mulder,' Lafayette said, with another shrug. Scully gave Mulder a weary and long-suffering look.

'Was anything stolen?' she asked.

'Almost nothing. Some old photograph albums were kept in Drake's study. The study was searched, quite clumsily The albums were pulled out, some photographs taken. That is all. There was money here, good wine, some valuable antiques that would certainly have been worth stealing, but nothing was taken except the photographs.'

'May we see the study?' Scully asked. Lafayette gestured for them both to follow him as he left the room and headed back down the stairs.

'Whoever it was, he had no experience at searching a room. You know that it is good practice to search a chest of drawers from bottom to top so that you do not have to close each drawer when you have searched it. This man began at the top. He pulled each drawer out and threw them across the floor. That's no way to find something. To pile it all in a heap so that you can trip over it in the dark.' The shrug again. 'Whatever this man is, he is not a burglar.'

Drake's study had been roughly tidied, the drawers stacked in one corner and their spilled contents pushed into an untidy heap on one side of the room.

'The forensics officers have finished here,' Lafayette said. 'But I asked them to leave the papers for you. Nothing has been removed. I have searched through them once, but perhaps you know better than me what to look for.'

'Are the albums here?' Mulder asked.

'On the desk. This is the one from which the photographs were taken.'

The photograph albums were leather bound and smudged with grey from the fingerprint powder. Mulder opened the one that Lafayette had given him. Drake's bearded face smiled up at him in grainy colour. A hand-written note beneath the first photograph in the book read 'Boston - 1978' Max Donnelly was in most of the photographs: there were shots with Drake's arm around him, of Donnelly posing with a sword, of Donnelly and Drake at a restaurant, or in evening dress, or beside the sea with palm trees behind them.

Lafayette said: 'The young man with the sword, the one called Max. Do you know anything about him?'

'His full name was Max Donnelly. He disappeared several years ago,' Mulder said. 'Presumed dead, but no body was ever found.'

He flipped through the book until he came to the pages where the photographs had been ripped from their mountings. The written notes were dotted across the empty page. Most of them read simply: 'Maine - summer '79'.

An hour later Lafayette had left to call his local counterparts and Mulder and Scully were steadily working through the papers in the study. Drake had kept everything: old receipts, junk mail, bank statements, bills and personal mail. Scully set aside a thick sheaf of bank statements and sighed.

'Arch Drake has more money in his household account than I earned all last year, Mulder. Maybe there is something in this organised crime theory.'

'There wasn't anything illegal about the way he made his money, Scully,' Mulder said, concentrating on his own sheaf of papers. 'He started in the sixties. I think his original capital was a life insurance payout after his father's death in a boating accident. He made some good investments on the London stock market, opened a reasonably successful chain of fashion stores, sold them off for a couple of million in the mid-seventies and started backing some of the early computer companies in the US. In 1982 he started a software company that was bought up in 1988 for around fifty million.'

'Who did he leave his money to?'

'According to the will there's a kid, a Nick Drake, but he hasn't turned up yet,' Mulder said, shuffling through a stack of photocopied flyers and leaflets, glancing through each and putting it down on an ever growing pile on the floor. 'There isn't anything to indicate who the mother might have been. When he does show he's going to have more money than he knows what to do with. There don't seem to be any other relatives at all.'

'There's a son?' Scully said.

'I suppose his being gay doesn't preclude the possibility but nobody at the camp ever mentioned him and there's no record of Drake ever being married.'

'There's nothing in any of the albums either. No baby pictures or girlfriends. Doesn't that seem strange to you, Mulder?'

Mulder didn't answer and Scully glanced over at him. He was holding a notice in his hand, a badly photocopied list of the times and places of a series of public lectures on the history of French art. It had been part of a sheaf of leaflets advertising shows and exhibitions that for the most part had closed months before. They had obviously been picked up in Paris. Scully doubted that anyone besides Mulder would have bothered to read through them all. Beside the titles were passport sized photographs of the lecturers.

'Mulder, what is it? Did you find something?'

'Yeah,' Mulder said. 'It's Adam, Scully. This is Adam Pierson.'

The tiny photograph showed a man with a pale, fine-featured face - in his late twenties, Scully thought. The grainy photograph showed little more, but it left her with the impression of short, dark hair and amused eyes.

'Your friend from Maine?' Scully asked.

'Yeah. That's him. This is incredible. He must be almost forty now. He hasn't changed at all.'

'I guess there has to be someone who takes a flattering passport photo,' Scully commented. 'Or it could be an old photograph.'

'No. He's the same, Scully,' He shook his head in disbelief. 'He's exactly the same. I was afraid he'd be fat or bald or be wearing a suit and working for an insurance company or something... But this scares me more. He's exactly the same. He's even wearing one of those damn sweaters...'

Scully looked up sharply at the almost-pain in Mulder's voice. His eyes were still fixed on the tiny photograph.

'When's the lecture?' she asked. 'Going by the rest of the junk on this desk that list could be ten years old.'

'The lecture was only a few weeks ago. It says here he's still a grad student at the University of Paris. Christ...' He rubbed his hand roughly over his face.

'Why don't you look him up tomorrow, Mulder,' Scully suggested gently. 'You say he was with Drake in Maine for a few months. Maybe he can shed some more light on what's been happening.'

Mulder nodded slowly. 'Scully, I'm afraid he's going to turn out to be involved in this somehow. He was... good to me. It was a rough time in my life. He was a good friend.'

'Do you think it's likely that he was involved? Given what you know about him, I mean?'

'Not unless he's changed a lot. By the look of this he hasn't changed at all.'

'Mulder, your friendship with him might be what we need to get to the bottom of this. He may give you answers he wouldn't give anyone else. If you're honest with him...'

'I know. I just hope I can be honest with myself.'

Scully sighed. 'He's not a serious suspect, Mulder. The checks you asked Skinner to run showed that.'

'Yeah. There's no record of any British citizen of that name being in the States when Redburg died. There is such a thing as travelling under an assumed name, Scully.'

'I know, Mulder, but I think you're worrying too much. I've come up with a theory about these deaths.'

'Shoot, Scully,' Mulder said, leaning back against the wall, still holding the leaflet loosely in his hand.

'There's someone out there who wants Drake's money. Nick Drake inherits but nobody's ever seen him and nobody knows who he is. Someone else found out about it and decided to kill Drake, pose as his son and collect the money'

'So why kill Naomi?'

'She knew who the real Nick Drake was.'

'Do you have a theory about that too, Scully?'

'Drake and Max Donnelly seemed pretty close in those photographs, Mulder, and he looked about the right age to be Drake's son.'

'Scully, Max wasn't Drake's kid. They didn't have that kind of relationship.'

'Maybe Max didn't know he was Drake's son.'

'Sorry, Scully, but I think you're reaching here. I didn't catch it back then but I'm pretty sure now that Drake and Max were sleeping together. I know that doesn't necessarily rule out the possibility that they were related but we're assuming that Naomi would have known too and she wasn't the type to cheerfully harbour dark, incestuous secrets. Anyway, that theory doesn't explain the beheadings or the graffiti. Why draw attention to the fact that the murders were linked? Why were there two murderers? Why go to all this trouble? Why not just arrange a drive-by shooting for Naomi and a hunting accident for Drake?'

'I don't know, Mulder. All I'm saying is that fifty million dollars seems like a pretty good motive to me. Could one of the others in Maine have been Nick Drake?'

'There wasn't anyone else of Drake's physical type,' Mulder said, with a shrug. 'I guess Jacques would have been about the right age but I had the impression that he and Drake didn't like each other very much. Max was the only person Drake seemed at all close to.'

'Mulder, I'm not saying it's perfect but I think it's a working theory. Why else would the killer have taken the photographs if he didn't want to hide someone's identity?'

'Why take the photographs in the first place? That's something else that doesn't make sense. If they'd just been left in the album it's unlikely that anyone would ever have looked at them again. If they'd taken the whole album we'd probably never have noticed it was missing. Taking them like this is just drawing attention to the time and place they want to hide.'

'We may not be dealing with someone particularly rational or balanced, Mulder.'

'Do we ever?'

Scully sighed. 'Mulder, why don't you stop worrying, track down your friend when we get back to Paris tomorrow and catch up on the good old days back in Maine. I'm going to be at the mortuary for most of tomorrow and the day after anyway.'

'For one autopsy?'

'There have been a lot of beheadings in France over the last year or so. There are four or five other bodies that I've been asked to have a look at. It won't need both of us.'

'You're probably right. I'm not a big autopsy fan at the best of times. Well, not the human ones, anyway. I'll go find Lafayette.'

Lafayette was leaning against the car, dialling a number on his cellphone. He raised a hand to Mulder as he crossed the courtyard.

'Ah! Agent Mulder. Have you had any luck?'

The afternoon was growing cold. Mulder drew his jacket around himself more tightly.

'Some. Drake had some information about an old friend of mine from Maine. He's still in Paris. If you don't have any other plans, I'd like to track him down tomorrow while Scully starts the autopsies.'

'Of course,' Lafayette said. 'Do you believe this friend of yours could have been involved in this case any way?'

'As far as we know he wasn't in the States when Naomi Redburg was killed and I can't think of any reason why he'd want to kill either of the victims. On the other hand, he spent much more time with the two of them than I did. He may have some idea about a motive.'

'Then finding him would be an excellent idea'' Lafayette said approvingly. 'And it will be a pleasure to accompany Agent Scully tomorrow in your place. Your partner is a brilliant and beautiful woman. She reminds me very much of my old partner before she left the Force.'

'Why did she leave?' Mulder asked.

'Ah, when we married, she could not longer remain as my partner. And now, of course, with the children, it would be impossible.'

'Yeah. Of course.'

'Have you seen everything you needed to?'

'I think so.'

'Then we should leave for the hotel. I only have one more call to make. Nothing urgent. This is the night I usually go out for a few beers with my old friends from the Serious Crimes squad. I forgot to call before and tell them I wouldn't be able to come.'

Mulder gave him an insincere smile. 'Yeah. I hate it when that happens. I'll go and fetch Scully.'

It was late afternoon when they left Drake's cottage, and about seven o'clock by the time they reached Rennes. The hotel they were staying in was old-fashioned but comfortable - an improvement on the anonymous airport motels they normally used. Mulder showered and tried to rid himself of the feeling that it was still just after lunch. Jet-lag had shattered his already fragile sleep patterns. He resigned himself to the fact he wouldn't feel like going to bed until about six in the morning, local time. He tried the TV, but there was no cable and the only channels the antique set could pick up were French language. This was too far from England to get British TV, such as it was. A search of the room's cupboards revealed one book in English, written, as luck would have it, by Jackie Collins. He was reading through the first few pages when there was a knock on the door.

'Come in.'

'Mulder? It's me,' Scully said, pushing the door open.

'Hey, Scully. I don't suppose you brought anything to read?'

'No adult pay-per-view channel, Mulder?'

Mulder lay back on the bed and grinned up at her. 'I found a Jackie Collins novel but I from what I've read so far I really don't think I want it lodged in my memory for the rest of my life.'

'Yeah, Mulder. Don't tell me. You need that space for 'Debbie does Dallas IV'.'

'As a piece of cinematic art it's deeply underrated, Scully.'

Scully gave him a resigned look.

'I just spoke to Lafayette, Mulder. An eyewitness has turned up but Lafayette doesn't think he's reliable.'

'It sounds like he's all we've got at the moment.'

'They're holding him overnight. We can go in the morning, or we can get it over with now.'

'Gee, I don't know, Scully. I want to keep reading this and see if there's going to be a major character I wouldn't want to shoot thirty seconds after I met them.'

'It's a lost cause, Mulder. I'll tell Lafayette we'll meet him downstairs in ten minutes.'

The drab, green interview room in the police station at Rennes could have been in almost any police station anywhere in the western world. The witness, a Monsieur Baigent, was a thin, wizened man, unshaven and with lank, shoulder length, yellow-white hair. He could have been any age between fifty and eighty. He wore a filthy brown sweater and beneath it a wide collared paisley shirt of a type that had been out of fashion for twenty years or more. The whole was set off by a wide and disreputable green tie that hung outside the sweater. He leered at Scully hopefully and was given an icy glance in return that only seemed to encourage him further.

'Monsieur Baigent is a thief of birds and rabbits,' Lafayette declared. 'I forget the word in English.'

'A poacher?' Mulder suggested.

'Yes. A poacher,' Lafayette said. He scowled at Baigent, who looked around at the three of them and grinned toothlessly back. 'I have told him that you are very important people from the American FBI.'

'FBI!' Baigent repeated cheerfully and a little indistinctly. He leered at Scully again.

'I think he likes you,' Mulder said out of the corner of his mouth.

'Mulder, he makes Frohike look like a cover-boy for GQ.'

'That would be kind of an interesting issue,' Mulder murmured back.

Lafayette continued. 'Monsieur Baigent claims that he was on the Drake estate on the night of the killing. Yesterday he was arrested in connection with another matter. It is unimportant, except that to save his skin he told the officers here that he saw the murderer of Monsieur Drake leave his cottage.'

'Who was he?' Scully asked. 'Did Baigent give a description?'

'The murderer, Agent Scully, was a knight in armour wearing a long coat and driving a black car.' Lafayette shook his head in disgust. 'He was "very big and very tall". And there was another man who hid in the trees and took photographs. I think Monsieur Baigent has been watching too many James Bond movies.'

'Can you ask him what kind of armour?' Mulder asked.

Lafayette looked at him suspiciously for a moment.

'You are serious, Agent Mulder? You believe this ridiculous story?'

Mulder shrugged. 'We already have swords. Why not armour as well?'

Lafayette sighed. 'As you wish. I'll ask him, Agent Mulder.'

A little later they sat in the cramped interview room surrounded by such reference books as the local library had been able to provide. Baigent pored through a junior encyclopaedia of history with an air of intense concentration, leaving grimy smudges on each page.

The officer who had been sent on this task had taken his duty seriously and picked up anything even remotely relating to armour. Scully picked up a large print romance and held it wordlessly up to Mulder. The medieval knight on the cover was clutching a gauzily clad blonde in his arms and gazing at her with an expression of rapt but brainless adoration.

'Swords at Sunset,' Mulder translated. 'It's one of the less well-known classics of French literature, Scully.'

'Do you really think he's going to be able to tell us anything, Mulder?' Scully said wearily.

'He's the only eyewitness we've got, Scully.'

'Drake's death has been in the papers. He probably heard about it on TV and now he's using it to get out of whatever he's been charged with.'

'According to Lafayette the press release that was given out didn't mention that Drake was beheaded or that the probable weapon was a sword. I think he was there that night, Scully. Ok, he doesn't exactly inspire confidence, but unless the mysterious photographer turns up he's all we've got.'

Baigent chose that moment to let out an incomprehensible exclamation. He grasped Mulder's arm and jabbed the book he was reading, leaving a series of fingerprints which would have gladdened the heart of any scenes of crime officer, talking wildly as he did so.

'What's he saying, Mulder?' Scully asked.

Mulder shrugged. 'I can't help you with that one, Scully. My French lessons at school didn't exactly cover incoherent murder witnesses with no teeth. I could ask him for three first class train tickets to Marseilles if you think it'll help.'

Scully glared at him, and Lafayette flashed them an amused glance. 'He says that this is like the knight he saw getting out of the car. He wore a long red and white dress over his armour. The armour was like the armour in the picture and it had a hood. Before he left, he pulled it off over his head and put it in the boot of his car.'

'Chain mail must be kind of a bitch to drive in,' Mulder mused.

Lafayette was looking over Baigent's shoulder. 'The caption says that this type of armour dates back to the eleventh century, maybe earlier.'

'The time of the crusades.'

'Yes, Agent Mulder. I believe so.'

'Ask him if the red and white dress was white with a red cross on it.'

'Yes,' Lafayette said, after consulting with their unwashed witness for a few moments. 'It's as you said. How did you know?'

'That's a surcoat from one of the old knight crusader orders.'

'How is this relevant, Agent Mulder?' Lafayette asked.

'We think a cult associated with one of the orders may be involved,' Scully said, with a glance at Mulder that told him to please keep his weirder theories to himself this time.

'The military crusader orders were charismatic and powerful religious groups,' Mulder explained. 'The Templars were probably the most famous of them. They built up their wealth and political power escorting pilgrims to the Holy Land. Eventually they took on the role of bankers and moneylenders. When they finally grew too rich and powerful the Pope, the French King and a rival order called the Hospitallers destroyed them by acting together to arrest its leaders and accuse them of blasphemy and the worship of false gods. This was sometime around 1310. Most of the members were killed but some of them escaped and vanished with merchant ships supposedly loaded with wealth. If a religious cult has identified with them it wouldn't be the first time. The Order of the Solar Temple not only believed they were reincarnated Templars but also venerated a sword that was said to be a thousand years old. More than fifty members killed themselves in a suicide pact in 1994.'

'I remember.' Lafayette said grimly. 'There were sixteen deaths here, in Grenoble. And you believe that there is another cult? That maybe Drake was a member?'

Mulder shook his head. 'From the short time I knew him I would say that his psychology was wrong. He was strong willed and self centred. He wasn't credulous enough to be a cult member. Naomi Redburg I would say definitely not. A violent, weapons-centred cult would have repelled her.'

'But perhaps they are victims of a cult for some reason.'

'It seems to be the most likely explanation,' Mulder agreed reluctantly. 'I just don't know why they would want to kill two people whose only connection is that they spent the summer of 1979 in a reasonably innocent hippy commune in Maine.'

'It seems logical that one of the other who was there at the time is now a member of the cult. A leading member, perhaps, who had a grudge against the two who were killed,' Lafayette suggested.

'From a psychological point of view the most likely person was a man called Jacques Lemarchand,' Mulder said. 'He was charismatic and manipulative. Skinner hadn't made any progress in tracking him down the last time we spoke. He said he'd call tomorrow if he had anything.'

'Lemarchand,' Lafayette mused. 'Was he French, Agent Mulder?'

'He spoke good English with an American accent. I don't know if he had American citizenship, but he certainly doesn't fit the description of the murderer. He was a little taller than Scully - not a big man by any standards.'

'I'll make some enquiries when we return to Paris,' Lafayette said, decisively. 'There's nothing else we can do until then. I'll have some paperwork to do here, so I'll meet you in the morning. I've ordered a taxi to return you to your hotel.'

Mulder nodded. 'We'd better try and catch up on some sleep, Scully.'

'Jet lag is a terrible thing,' Scully said dryly.

Lafayette nodded. 'Yes. Of course. I remember, at one time, before my marriage, it was impossible for me to sleep through the night,' He chuckled ruefully. 'Every night I would fall asleep on the couch, watching old movies on the television. All I ever ate was pizza. All I ever thought about was my work. It's hard to believe that my life was once so miserable.'

'It certainly is,' Scully said. 'Mulder? Are you coming?'

'I hate that guy, Scully,' Mulder muttered under his breath as they walked out to the taxi. 'One haunted chateau, one lousy werewolf and suddenly he's Mr Paranormal.'

'Never mind, Mulder,' Scully said soothingly. 'He's very mainstream. I'll bet no-one ever called him a ticking time bomb of insanity.'

'Yeah. I suppose there's that,' Mulder said, brightening a little.

Lafayette's office in the Prefecture Centrale was larger and tidier than Mulder's, but only a little. The drive back to Paris had dissipated Mulder's foul mood a little, and after a morning of briefings, of exchanging information, he found himself developing a grudging respect for his counterpart. Lunch had been more than adequate - it was hard to find a badly cooked meal in Paris, or one of less than four courses, even in a police canteen.

After lunch they returned to Lafayette's office. It was easier to reach Adam Pierson than Mulder had expected. The University switchboard operator listened to his request, in stumbling schoolboy French, for Monsieur Pierson's extension, then replied in perfect English that if he would like to hold, she would try to connect him. He was transferred to a ringing extension which was picked up almost instantly.

'Oui?'

Mulder fought down a knot of tension in his stomach. From the single word it hadn't been possible to tell who he was talking too. 'Uh... Bonjour monsieur. Je... je voudrais parler au Moniseur Adam Pierson.'

Silence from the other end of the line.

' Mulder? Mulder, is that you?'

'Adam?'

'Yes. I gotta tell you... your French is lousy. And I've missed you. I've missed you a lot. Mulder... Fox, where are you?'

'I'm in Paris. I'm staying at the Hotel Lutetia. Adam, can we meet?' He was almost laughing with relief. After all this time, it was turning out to be so easy.

'Yes. Yes, of course,' Adam said. He sounded stunned, on the edge of laughter too. 'Of course. God, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again.'

'Yours too.'

'I was thinking about you last week. When I read about Drake getting killed, I mean. Wondering where you were, what you were doing...'

'I need to see you. I'm in France. I already said that, didn't I...'

'Yes. I'm not busy this afternoon. I mean, I am, but... but this is more important. I'm at my office in the university. But you know that, you rang me here. God, what an idiot. Uh... I'll be here for the rest of the day. Can you get over here? Do you know where it is?'

'Yes. I'm in Paris. I can get over this afternoon... Adam...'

'I think we'd better stop this conversation before it gets any more incoherent... I... I'll look forward to seeing you. I'll be in my office all day. Do you know where that is?'

'Just give me the address and I'll find it. I'll find you. I'll see you later.'

Adam's office was a cramped room high in one of the university's solid Victorian buildings. It seemed clear from the clutter and the desks and bookcases that filled the little room that at least two people shared the office. No-one was there when Mulder arrived so he sat in one of the three unmatched chairs and glanced over the shelves that filled the best part of one wall, trying to find something to take his mind off nervous tension aggravated by jet lag, too much coffee and a nightmarish taxi ride through tail end of the Paris lunchtime rush hour. He realised sourly that he hadn't been this nervous during any one of the armed incidents he'd been involved in. Then again, for a while he'd had to deal with shoot-outs pretty much on a weekly basis. That had been work. This was deeply personal. *I don't want to screw this up* he thought unhappily, although he knew that it was more than likely that passage of time would have done the job for him.

He was glancing through an archaeology journal article that detailed the reconstruction of faces from skeletal remains with at least an attempt at professional interest when the door opened. He stood uncertainly. He didn't know what he'd expected to see, but the photograph had told the truth. The man who faced him didn't look a day older than when they'd parted, more than seventeen years before. Still wearing jeans, still wearing a sweater. Mulder felt an involuntary grin stretch his face.

'Adam?' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Christ, you're looking good.'

'So are you. God, it's good to see you again!'

They embraced briefly and parted, both a little unsure of each other, of how to continue.

'I don't know what to call you,' Adam said after a moment. 'You're too old be called kid anymore. Do you still call yourself Mulder?'

'Still Mulder.' Mulder said firmly. 'My friends call me Mulder. My partner calls me Mulder. I even made my parents call me Mulder.'

'Partner,' Adam smiled wryly. 'I guess I really do have some catching up to do.'

'My partner at work. I'm not married. Or attached.'

'I'm kind of glad to hear that.'

Mulder smiled. 'I kind of hoped you would be.'

Adam gestured to one of the ill matched chairs and sat on the edge of the desk.

'So you've got a partner. Does that mean you started a practice?'

'A practice? Oh, you mean as a psychologist. No, nothing like that.'

'You're going to make me guess? You're a tennis doubles player, a lawyer or a police officer. That or you've taken up ballroom dancing professionally.'

Mulder nodded gravely. 'They're thinking of making it an Olympic sport in 2000.'

Adam looked at him wordlessly for a moment. 'Mulder, tell me you're joking.'

'No, seriously. If synchronised swimming and beach volleyball can get in...'

'Mulder, you are not a professional ballroom dancer.'

'I can do the grin. Do you want me to do the grin?'

Adam gave him a grin of his own. 'Mulder, I don't know what it is that professional ballroom dancers wear in their time off but it sure as hell isn't anything by Armani.'

'All my plaid suits are off being pressed.'

'Seriously, Mulder.'

'Seriously,' Mulder dropped himself back into one of the sagging chairs. 'I'm an FBI agent.'

There was a moment's silence.

'Seriously, Mulder.'

Mulder pulled out his ID and wordlessly flipped it across the room.

Adam studied it with narrowed eyes, then flipped it back. 'This is real? You're an FBI agent?'

'That's a problem?' Mulder said. His voice was a little less composed than he would have liked.

'Not a problem, Mulder. It just seems... pretty unlikely, I guess. You're too... uh...'

'You think I'm too weird to be an FBI agent?' Mulder said, deadpan.

Adam nodded, amusement in his eyes.

'Not exactly the word I was looking for, but you're not far off.'

'But you mean that in a good way, right?'

Adam smiled wryly. 'I always thought you'd end up as a journalist or a researcher. An academic, even. I just didn't think you'd end up working for the government. You were pretty anti-establishment in a quiet kind of way. So you're... what, Special Agent Mulder?'

Mulder smiled. 'Kind of a mouthful.'

Adam leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He eyed Mulder with some amusement.

'So what are you investigating, Special Agent Mulder?'

'Arch Drake. You said you'd heard about Drake being killed.'

Adam nodded and his smile faded. 'Yes. I don't catch much TV but it was in the papers. "The mutilated body of Arch Drake was found on the floor of his Breton farmhouse..." God, I hope it was over quickly for him. Did they catch whoever did it?'

'No. We have a few leads. There may be a connection with the camp.'

'With the camp? I don't get it. What's it got to do with back then? Drake's done a hell of a lot of moving and shaking since then. He probably made quite a few enemies before he even set the place up.'

'There was another death. Someone else who was there. I've been working on the investigation in the US. Now I'm over here on attachment to the Surete.'

'Then it was Naomi,' Adam said. A shadow crossed his face. 'The woman in San Francisco, I mean. Damn. I read about that in the papers too. I remembered the name and that she'd moved to San Francisco but there wasn't a photograph. I wasn't sure if it was her or not.'

'It was her,' Mulder said. The image of the head in the sink flashed into his mind. He pushed it away, to the back of his mind.

'And they hadn't met up since then?'

'That's what I wanted to ask you. I need to know as much as possible from that time. I remember you kept some kind of diary.'

'That was eighteen years ago, Mulder. I'll look around and see if I've still got it packed away somewhere, but I'm not promising anything. Why do you think the two deaths are connected, anyway?'

'There were some similarities in the modus operandi. Naomi and Drake were both beheaded.'

'Beheaded.'

'Yes. As yet we don't know who by and we don't know why.'

'And the only link you've found between them was their time in Maine.'

Mulder nodded. 'Have you seen Drake recently?' he asked.

'The last time we spoke was six months ago, at a gallery opening. That was the last time I saw him, face to face, at least.'

'I don't understand. What do you mean?'

'Drake was a guy who got around a lot. I've seen him on TV a few times since then, read about him in the gossip columns. We weren't exactly close.'

'Would it surprise you to know that he had the programme for the French Art lecture series in his desk?'

'That's how you found me?'

'Yes.'

Adam was silent for a moment, then seemed to recover himself.

'Then... then I guess the old guy did follow what I was doing. I've had a few unexpected commissions over the last few years. Magazine articles mostly. I guessed they might have come from him somewhere along the line. I'm sorry he had to die like that. If there's anything else I can tell you, Mulder...'

'Did you know he was gay?'

Adam nodded. 'That was an open secret. You think maybe he brought someone home?'

'His door was broken down on the night of his death so it seems unlikely. The French police are trying to find out if someone was blackmailing him.'

Adam shook his head. 'Not about being gay. Like I said, it was an open secret. These are the 1990s. When you've got someone who looks as good as Drake, still single well into his fifties, a well known patron of the arts - people are going to be surprised if you tell them he's straight. There were a couple of boyfriends...' he spread his hands.

'Who? Do you know their names?'

'Just from the gossip columns. Remy someone. Something to do with vineyards. And there was a blond American. Tad? Ted? The Surete probably have all this already.'

'Were you ever Drake's lover?'

Adam shook his head. 'Not classy enough for him. Compared to what he was used to I'd have been rough trade.' He stretched his arms lazily above his head and Mulder tried to avoid making the connection in his mind between Adam Pierson stretched out before him and the phrase 'rough trade'. It was hard going. Two inches of smooth white skin showed between the edge of his sweater and the waistband of his jeans. *Maybe if I sit on my hands*, Mulder thought to himself, fighting the urge to touch. The cramped office suddenly seemed a little warmer than it had a moment ago.

'Mulder, do you want to finish this over dinner?' Adam asked. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the noticeable uncertainty on Mulder's face. 'No lentils, I promise.'

Mulder smiled. 'Dinner would be great. So where are you taking me?'

'There's a place a mile or so down the Seine. The menu's pretty basic but what they do they do well. No too many tourists, good wine. My flat's not too far away...'

Mulder grinned at the underlying invitation. 'A flat in central Paris? Being a grad student must pay more than I thought.'

'Oh, think of it as a garret,' Adam said, with a lazy smile. 'It's traditional for students in Paris to starve in garrets. I'm looking after it for a friend who's out of town for most of the year. I get kicked out for a couple of months in the summer, the odd week here and there for the rest of the year - that's usually when I head back to England or the States.'

'Nice arrangement.'

'Rent free. I just pay the bills.' Adam rose to his feet.

For a moment, they were both silent.

'So, is tonight a date?' Mulder asked.

'Could be,' Adam said with a faint smile. 'It all depends...'

'On what?'

'We might discover after ten minutes that we hate each other's guts. That we haven't got a damn thing in common any more. Let's just take it as it comes.'

'That sounds good.' Mulder smiled, suddenly frighteningly, deeply happy.

'Mulder. One more thing...'

'What? Anything.'

Adam didn't speak. Just raised a hand to his face, steadying him, then moved in and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss was gentle and serious and sweet. Mulder felt a soft sigh escape his lips. His arms found their own way around Adam's body as he surrendered gratefully and much too easily to the inevitable. *Slut* he thought to himself happily and with a certain degree of satisfaction. He raised one hand to Adam's short hair. What was it about that hair? He heard Adam moan softly against his mouth. One of Adam's hands moved lower, touching his ass through the soft wool of his suit, pulling their hips tightly together, and then it was his turn to moan. When Adam released him he made a little noise of protest at the loss. For a moment they stood close together, still in each other's arms, faces only an inch apart. In a moment of sweet, remembered intimacy Mulder bowed his head, and felt Adam's lips touch his forehead, and heard his sigh as his hand came up to gently stroke Mulder's hair. He let his eyes close in willing surrender, as he always had before.

'Ok. So this is going to be a date.' Adam said softly.

They left the office together and walked in silence along the Seine, both deep in thought. The initial, careless joy of the reunion had faded a little, and the realities of the situation had begun to re-emerge. Adam seemed lost in thought at they walked, distant and remote, and Mulder glanced at him more than once as they walked. The other didn't seem worried, not exactly, but there was a tension about him that had not been there when he'd walked through the door to find Mulder in his office, or when they'd kissed.

To break the mood Mulder said ruefully: 'I was just thinking of all the reasons why this is a terrible idea. Going out for dinner with a potential suspect in a serial killing case is kind of unprofessional.'

Adam glanced at him. 'Thanks for the "potential".'

Mulder looked out towards the river. 'And what we had was a long time ago. It took a long time for me to get over it. Maybe I never did. I keep thinking it wouldn't be wise to start again.'

Adam said, uncertainly 'Do you want to let things cool off?' and Mulder looked up in surprise at the unsteadiness in his voice. Adam was giving him a way out if he wanted it, he realised, one he would probably have been wise to take.

Instead he just shook his head. 'Not an option. Not since that kiss.'

'Yeah,' Adam agreed. 'It isn't an option, not really. One of my better efforts.' He shot Mulder a half-mocking smile. 'So, what's it going to take?'

'To do what?'

'To prove I wasn't involved.'

'Anyone who saw you here on either of the murder dates. Supporting evidence. Credit card bills, shopping receipts, parking tickets...'

'For Naomi that won't be a problem. I think I chaired a seminar that morning. I'm sure at least some of my students stayed awake the whole way through. That whole thing, though...'

'What about it?'

'Why kill Naomi? She was harmless. She probably never offended anyone in her entire life.'

'I don't know,' Mulder admitted. 'If it wasn't for Drake I'd have assumed she'd been chosen at random.'

'What about the others? Are they all OK?'

'We haven't been able to trace most of them yet. We're still working on it. So how about Drake? Where were you when he was killed?'

'Well it's going to be a problem to prove I was in Paris.'

'Why's that?'

'All that week I was in New York.' He caught Mulder's curious glance. 'Translation job for a historical foundation I used to work for. I still work for them as a consultant sometimes. I can give you a couple of numbers at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I spent most of that week in their research library. Any other questions?'

'Have you ever owned any chain mail?' Mulder asked, deadpan.

'Not recently,' Adam said, shooting him an amused glance, the earlier tension broken. 'Have you got a hot lead on King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table?'

'There was an eyewitness,' Mulder said wryly. 'It's just possible he's not reliable.'

'You're not kidding.'

Mulder paused before asking: 'Have you still got your sword?'

Adam nodded. 'Yeah. I've still got it somewhere. I don't do too much Kenjetsu anymore. Do you need to see it?'

Mulder frowned. Adam was a little too unconcerned for a man admitting to possession of a potential murder weapon.

'If the rest checks out it shouldn't be necessary, I guess.'

'Do you want to get that over with first? All the paperwork's back at my flat.'

'We can do it tomorrow. I don't seriously believe you had anything to do with this.'

'Routine enquiries?' Adam's mouth quirked in a faint, amused smile.

'Someone's gotta do 'em.'

'So is there any kind of a motive for the deaths?'

'The best theory so far is that someone at the camp must have had a grudge against Naomi and Drake. I can't imagine what it could be in Naomi's case'

'That follows. Have you traced anyone else yet?'

'Have you heard anything from Jacques Lemarchand since 1979?'

Adam let out an irritated breath.

'Yeah, we exchange Christmas cards every year. What do you think, Mulder? We hated each other's guts.'

'I've got to ask you this, Adam.'

Adam spread his hands in pacification.

'Yeah. I'm sorry. The short answer's no. Apart from Drake I haven't had any contact with any of the others. I take it that Jacques is your number one suspect at the moment.'

'He fits the profile best of anyone who was there. I don't see any of the others as a potential killer.'

Adam nodded gravely and rubbed the side of his nose. 'Then I'd say he was your best bet.'

'Do you remember any reason why he might have had a grudge against Naomi or Drake?'

'He was an antisocial bastard all round. I don't remember anything specific.'

'That's the problem. No obvious motive at all. That and that fact that our eyewitness says that whoever killed Drake was well over six feet tall. I remember Lemarchand being a lot shorter than that.'

'Platform heels?'

Mulder smiled at the image. 'Gee, I don't know, Adam. Platform heels with chain mail. What kind of a fashion statement is that?'

'You didn't know?' Adam said innocently. 'It's what the stunted psychopath is wearing this season.'

'Well that clears the case up. We just search the hospitals for a short guy with broken ankles.' He smiled as Adam laughed. 'I've missed that.'

'What?'

'Someone who laughs at my jokes. Without edging nervously towards the door at the same time, I mean.'

'What about your partner?'

'Scully? She's kind of serious.'

'No sense of humour?'

'Well sometimes I get the feeling she finds *me* amusing...'

'Your sense of humour must be an acquired taste, Mulder.'

'Yeah. The problem is I think I acquired it from you. Monty Python. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy... Scully's always been more of a Seinfeld kind of person...'

The conversation sprawled on as it always had, as if seventeen years had never passed, as the two men walked on under the spring trees. Gulls squabbled and fought over the river and the bateaux mouche made their leisurely way under graceful bridges. Mulder wondered what their tourist passengers saw. A student and a businessman. Jeans and a sweater, and an expensive suit. *I look older than him now. Maybe they think he's my kid brother.* That was a strange thought. He remembered when he'd been the kid. For the first time in his life, feeling completely safe. And now, despite the circumstances, feeling safe again. This time, now that he knew the value of what he'd found, it was going to be so much harder to give it up again.

* * *

'It's him? Are you certain?'

The room was high in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. It was very late - early in the morning, in fact. The woman who spoke was tall, blonde and elegant. The few fine lines that showed around her eyes despite perfect make-up were the only visible sign that she was the wrong side of thirty five. The young Englishman who stood patiently opposite her took it all in without changing expression. The suit was real Chanel. The heavy chain was real gold. A wealthy woman, but he knew that anyway. If she hadn't been wealthy, he wouldn't have been here.

He wordlessly handed her the photographs he had taken from the tourist boat.

'Please, sit down, Mr Leigh. Help yourself to a drink.'

He took his place on a soft, white leather sofa, poured himself to a mineral water and watched the perfectly manicured hands leaf through photograph after black and white photograph.

The woman sank back into the soft leather, absorbed by the pictures she held. The two men walking along the embankment, side by side. Talking, occasionally touching. Casual and comfortable with each other. The FBI agent, elegant in his trenchcoat and expensive suit. He was, she considered dispassionately, almost beautiful. The other dressed carelessly, casually. Clothes that were too big for him. Short dark hair, an attractive but not handsome face. A student. Ordinary. She sighed and gathered the photographs into a single, neat pile.

The Englishman sitting opposite her sipped his mineral water and met her enquiring gaze.

'His name is Adam Pierson. Mr Mulder went to see him as soon as he'd booked into his hotel this afternoon. He's an art historian at the University of Paris.'

'He looks very much younger than I imagined,' the woman commented. 'Are you certain he's the one?'

'He's the Adam Pierson who Mulder met in Maine in 1979.' Leigh said. 'Whether or not he's the man you're looking for or not I have no way of knowing.'

'I find it hard to believe that he is. Why did you leave them? Where are they now?'

'They ate at a restaurant and returned to Mr Pierson's flat. I believe they'll spend the night there.'

'Lemarchand said that they were lovers,' the woman said disinterestedly.

'Yes. I would say from their body language this evening that it's almost a certainty.'

'We can use that.'

'It shouldn't be necessary. As soon as I can get Pierson alone I'll bring him to you. It won't be necessary to involve Mulder further unless he interferes.'

'Don't you want to kill him?' the woman asked with mild curiosity.

'I don't kill for the sake of it,' Leigh said, equally mildly. 'You're not paying me for him and I don't have anything against him personally. He has quite a reputation in our circles. I think I'd enjoy meeting him socially.'

'You're a curious man, assassin.'

'I don't enjoy killing. It's just my job. If you want to pay me to kill Mulder then I'll kill him, but it'll be more trouble that it's worth.'

'How so?'

'A student vanishes - who notices? Maybe he met a girl, or decided to spend a month travelling or got bored and moved on. An FBI agent vanishes, and forces are mobilised - Interpol, the Surete, the Police Judiciarie, the DGSE even. There are roadblocks, his description is circulated. As I said, it's too much trouble. We're better to just leave him be. It might be as well to leave Pierson for a week or so also. To wait until Mulder returns to America.'

'No. Time is very short now. We can't wait and risk him vanishing again.'

'As you wish. I should be able to take him tomorrow.'

'Very well. Assume that he will recover quickly from any drug you use. You will need to tie him securely. If he is the man we're looking for, he will be very dangerous. Don't underestimate him. If you have to injure him, do so. Shoot him if necessary.'

'It won't be necessary,' Leigh said, with the air of one politely receiving instructions that have been repeated many times before.

'Good. Then I'll wait for you to contact me.'

She waited until he had left before making the telephone call. Gilles was at the apartment in New York. It would be six hours earlier there - not quite dark. The search continued in America, under Gille's personal supervision. That fool Richard had had his wish after all, Anne thought with some amusement, although with Gilles accompanying him his pathetic bid for freedom would be worse than useless. Gilles would keep him in line with a heavy hand, heavier than when they were alone on the island. Richard's depravities made him conspicuous. But then again perhaps in the cesspool of New York even such as he would not be noticed.

One thing she did know. Gilles would not stop, would not allow the others to stop, until they were certain that Adam Pierson was the man they sought. Methos. Ancient one. Anne looked at the photograph and felt a cold amusement rise within her. How could this be the man they wanted? Grim Death? This lanky boy in his twenties, with his sweaters and books and his student's haircut? But then again, what better way to hide? She dialled the number. It was answered almost instantly.

'Grand Master,' Anne said reverently.

'Lady Anne. What news?'

'My lord, we've found Adam Pierson.'

'Do you have him?'

'Not yet, Grand Master, but it's only a matter of hours. Mulder went straight to him. Leigh has taken pictures of them both and followed them to Pierson's apartment. He'll take Pierson in the morning, when Mulder leaves again...'

'Send me the photographs,' Gilles interrupted softly. 'I want to see his face.'

The photograph scanned quickly into her laptop.

'I'm e-mailing it to you now, lord.'

Seconds later she heard through her mobile the telltale chime of her e-mail arriving three thousand miles away on another continent. What tools this century had given them.

'This is Methos? This *boy* is Death?' Gilles asked after a moment in a soft, dangerous voice.

'This is Adam Pierson. We'll discover if he's Death tomorrow.'

'You've done well, my lady.'

'For the glory of God,' Anne said, but the connection had already been cut off.

An Apartment in New York City

Anne had done well. They were closer now than they had been in eight centuries, but Gilles did not allow himself to rejoice. The four of them had come close before and still failed. That was God's will. But still, to be so close...

Sometimes the vigil helped, but not tonight. He couldn't be still. So close, and he felt his skin crawl with the anticipation of it. Tonight the voices that always sang and talked and sobbed and cursed in his head were closer, and this time he could almost hear the words. The voices of the ones he'd taken. It had been so long, Lemarchand the first in a century or more. He had forgotten how sweet taking a head could be until Lemarchand had brought the memories back. And now he wanted battle again, and his skin itched with the need to kill again and be bathed in the fire. Holy fire.

He took the photograph up again and looked at it. The two of them, standing on the riverbank. Who would have thought that darkness would have such an ordinary face? And the one he'd corrupted. He'd seen the photographs of Mulder as a youth. *If I had found you first...* he thought, to discipline the boy, of course, to instruct him in the ways of the Lord. The darker lusts that swelled in him he pushed down, back into the part of his mind where everything animal and unholy was hidden. It was too late for Mulder now, and he'd have to die.

'I want to be the one who kills you,' he told the man in the photograph. It would be an act of mercy. Perhaps Mulder would repent at his hands. After all, Lemarchand had, in the end.

Outside the window a siren howled and almost drowned the voices out, then cut off abruptly. A car drove past, the thumping boom of its stereo seeming to force its way up through the floor, rising then fading away again. Yellow taxis came and passed and other, more expensive cars drove past more slowly and sometimes drew to a halt beside the girls who worked the street below. There was evil here, filth and evil and corruption, everywhere he looked. A Godless hell, but the thought that soon, very soon, this would be nothing but a howling waste of concrete and steel and white bone both cheered and comforted him a little.

Meanwhile, back in Paris...

It was much, much later when they finally made their way to Adam's apartment. The meal had been good, the conversation better, the wine not too plentiful. Anticipation of what was to come had grown slowly and pleasantly through the evening. Neither man had wanted to rush this night. They had taken the time to enjoy each other's company first. The relationship had always been about more than just sex.

'Home sweet home.' Adam said. 'Want a beer?'

Without waiting for an answer he went straight to the fridge and pulled out two cans.

'This is a nice place,' Mulder said, looking around. He put his coat down.

'How about some music?'

'Sure.'

'Anything you want to listen to?'

'Your choice.'

Adam smiled. 'Something to dance to, then.'

'That would be... that would be nice.'

After a moment soft jazz swelled from hidden speakers somewhere.

'Why don't you lose the jacket?' Adam suggested.

'If you lose the sweater. What is it with you and sweaters anyway?'

'Nobody takes a guy in a sweater seriously. Nobody even notices a guy in a sweater half the time.'

'And you don't want to be noticed?'

Adam grinned as he pulled the baggy sweater over his head. He wore a t-shirt underneath. His body was as slender and muscled as Mulder remembered.

'It's a uniform, Mulder. Like the suit. Now come here...'

An hour later, when the CD ran out, they were still in each other's arms, hardly moving. Awkwardness had given way to renewed intimacy almost immediately. The remembered feel of Adam's body, the warmth of him, the smell of his skin and hair... easy to lose himself in that, and in the memories of a perfect summer so many years before. Now Mulder's arms were around Adam's shoulders, and he found himself very aware of the other man's hands resting gently on his waist. Adam murmured, his lips brushing against Mulder's ear:

'Mulder, do you want to go to bed now?'

'Yes...'

'You spoiled me for the others, Adam.'

'I did?' Adam murmured. He was tracing a line of kisses along Mulder's collarbone with a kind of languid concentration. Mulder let his head fall back, arching his neck as Adam pulled his shirt back to fully expose his shoulder.

'You know what turns me on now? An English accent. Does it for me every time. An English accent, pale skin. Short, soft hair...' he stopped abruptly. 'Christ, I just realised! That means Phoebe was your fault!'

'Who's Phoebe?' Adam asked. His fingers found a nipple and began to tease. Mulder arched his back involuntarily and closed his eyes.

'The girlfriend from hell. Don't stop doing that. Do NOT stop doing that. Oh God...'

'Sensitive nipples. Bet you thought I hadn't remembered,' Adam said, his words muffled in Mulder's offered neck. 'You still taste good, Mulder. Better.'

'I guess... I guess Givenchy aftershave has got to be an improvement on bug repellent.'

'You know Mulder, I don't think I'm going to be able to support you in the style to which you've become accustomed...'

Mulder grinned, his eyes still shut. 'You think maybe we should call the whole thing off?'

'You want to stop now?'

'No... oh God, no, don't stop...' He ran both his hands though dark, velvet hair, fingers spread, following the graceful shape of his lover's head.

Adam's voice grew soft and thick.

'I've wanted to do this to you since you walked into my office, Mulder. I wanted to get you out of that expensive suit and fuck you right there on my desk.'

Mulder felt his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile.

'Why uhh... Adam... why didn't you? I don't think I'd have put up... much of a fight.'

'They make enough of a fuss about smoking in those offices,' Adam said indistinctly. 'God only knows what they'd say about having sex.'

'This is France. They'd probably sell tickets. This isn't fair, Adam...'

'Who said anything... mmm... anything about being fair?'

'A shirt's easier to get off than a t-shirt. I want to touch you too...'

Adam swore under his breath and pulled away long enough to pull the t-shirt over his head.

'I'm doing all the work here, Mulder,' he complained.

'Give me a chance.' Mulder said. His hand moved lower, stroked. He felt the other man shudder as Mulder's hand began to cup and trace his shape through the denim.

'Ohh yes... Now that's better, Mulder.'

'Let me get the rest of this shirt undone. I don't want any of the buttons ripped off in the throes of passion...'

'Has anyone ever told you you talk much too much, Mulder?' Adam asked in a rather strained voice.

'Yeah. A lot of people. All the time. Let me just get this undone...' he grinned. 'No boxers?'

'I only wear them in bed.'

'Not tonight, you don't. You know, from here it looks like you really are pleased to see me.' A pause. 'Feels like it too.'

'You're a bloody tease, Mulder.' Adam managed to say.

'Yeah. So they tell me.'

'You better get out of the rest of that suit, Mulder, otherwise Armani or not... oh God!'

'Yeah. I remember you liking that...'

Adam swore an oath that hadn't been heard for thirteen centuries, and manhandled the other onto the bed, pinning him by the shoulders.

'You had your chance, Mulder,' he snarled. 'I'm going to rip that fucking suit off with my teeth.'

He felt Mulder's body shake with laughter underneath him.

'No, wait...' Mulder gasped helplessly. 'Please. Not the Armani...'

'You have thirty seconds, Mulder. I'm not joking.'

Mulder struggled to get out of his clothes as the other nuzzled and bit at his neck and ear.

'No bite marks...' he managed to say through his laughter.

'You're giving an awful lot of orders,' Adam said indistinctly. Mulder managed to half pull, half kick his suit pants off.

'Any bites I have to explain to my partner,' Mulder explained breathlessly.

'The one without the sense of humour.'

'She's a forensic pathologist. She knows bites.'

Adam managed to pin him, then looked down at him.

'I'm going to make you shut up now.' he said giving the words the barest edge.

'Yeah, make me...' Mulder began happily, and then did indeed shut up as his mouth was taken in a hard kiss. He moaned: Adam held him down easily, taking his own sweet time about it. This was what he wanted. Oh God, this was exactly what he needed. When Adam released him his mouth felt swollen and bruised.

They looked at each other silently. In a few seconds playfulness had turned to full blown, unstoppable desire.

Mulder whispered 'I want you to do whatever you want to me. Anything you want.'

And that was all it took. Suddenly they were devouring each other, the few remaining clothes torn off so that body could rub against body, hardness against hardness. There was no skill, no finesse, just a frantic, breathless, desperate struggle towards completion. They thrust, cock against cock, until the pleasure mounted in wave after hot, painful wave, until the heat and friction between their bodies became too much to bear. Somewhere in the back of Mulder's mind came the thought that it had never been like this before, that if it had been he could never have let the other man leave, that he would have followed him, anywhere. Then all thought abandoned him. He came harder than he could remember coming in his life, sobbing obscenities, only dimly aware that his lover was crying out in a language he'd never heard before as he came too.

He let his head fall back. He was breathless, exhausted, drained. Adam rolled away from him, onto his front, his own breath coming hard.

Mulder managed 'Are you ok?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I think so,' Adam said, voice muffled by the pillows.

Mulder closed his eyes and waited for his breathing to return to normal.

'Christ, I needed that.'

'We need to wash up,' Adam said, voice slurred.

'Yeah. Kind of sticky.'

Neither man moved.

'Was it like that before?' Mulder asked in a slightly dazed voice. 'I don't remember it being like that before.'

'It wasn't like that before. I'd have remembered,' Adam said. He rolled over with effort.

'I'll get a cloth. Don't move or anything, will you Mulder.'

'Yeah,' Mulder said, voice on the edge of sleep. 'Like I could now.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' Adam muttered. He pulled himself to his feet and made his way wearily to the bathroom. As he cleaned himself up he watched the bites and scratches Mulder had inflicted fade and heal in the bathroom mirror. For some reason that made him feel discontented. He wanted to keep those marks for a little longer. He sighed and rinsed out the cloth. Nothing lasted forever. Nothing lasted for any time at all. He returned to the bedroom.

'Cloth, Mulder.'

But the lingering effects of jet lag and a long evening had taken their toll. Mulder's eyes were closed and his breathing had slowed to that of sleep. Adam sighed, and did the honours himself. Mulder's sleeping face had lost some of its strain and tiredness. He looked younger, though the years since they'd parted had left their mark. Adam climbed into the bed beside him, and pulled the other man close.

'Ok, so this was a mistake.' he murmured to himself, not for the first time in his long life. Or if not a mistake, a gamble he'd taken too often and which had never yet repaid him. The price for growing too close to someone was always pain. The happiness was just for a little while and the pain took far longer to fade. Better not to feel at all, but that was a trick that he hadn't managed in five thousand years. Unhappy and unsettled, he gathered Mulder to him. He didn't want to lose this one, but the only hope he had was a distant one indeed.

'Adam?'

The voice in the darkness stirred Adam into semi-wakefulness.

'Yeah?'

'You awake?'

Adam shifted against Mulder lazily, pulling him a little deeper into his arms.

'I am now. What's the problem, Mulder? Still having trouble sleeping?'

'I need to know,' Mulder said, his voice soft with sleep. 'Why didn't you answer my postcard?'

Adam was quiet for few moments.

'You didn't need me any more, Mulder.' he said, at last. 'I thought my being around would screw things up for you. You were just a kid...'

'We could have stayed friends. Oxford and Paris aren't that far apart.'

Adam turned to look at him. 'It wouldn't have been possible for us just to have been friends, Mulder.'

'No,' Mulder admitted. 'But I should have had a say in the decision.'

Adam turned his head away, looking up at the ceiling. 'Yeah. I know, Mulder. It was wrong to cut you off like that. I'm sorry.'

Mulder said: 'I missed you a lot.' The words were coming out as though he was seventeen again, hesitant and awkward. 'It was as if... when I was with you, I didn't need to pretend to be someone I wasn't. You liked me for who I was, it was that simple. I never really had that before. It hurt when I lost you.'

'I didn't mean to hurt you,' Adam said, with real regret. 'I had good reasons for what I did. I can't tell you what they were, but they were good reasons.'

Mulder sighed. 'I thought I'd gotten over it. I guess not.' He paused, uncertain how to continue, then pressed on: 'Adam, you were in some kind of trouble then, weren't you.'

Adam sighed. That hadn't been a question. 'Yeah. Let's just say I had some family problems.'

'Is what's happening now because of that?'

'I don't know, Mulder. It might be. I hope not, but I don't know enough to be sure.'

'Did you kill either of them? Drake or Redburg, I mean.'

'No, Mulder. I didn't kill them,' Adam said wearily, and Mulder flushed. The question was too obvious, a salve for his own misery rather than a genuine request for an admission of innocence or guilt.

'I believe that. But I think you know some of what's going on. We need to talk about it.'

'Tomorrow, Mulder.'

'But will you tell me? I need to know.'

'We'll talk about it tomorrow, Mulder.' On impulse he rolled onto his side and kissed the other man gently on the mouth, then on the forehead. He whispered 'For a little while, you're going to have to trust me,' and kissed Mulder on the mouth again and watched a little of the unhappiness fade from Mulder's face.

'I trust you,' Mulder whispered. A blessed surrender. He felt tears start to sting at his eyes, for no reason, no reason at all.

Adam said: 'Then sleep, Mulder.'

It was a softly spoken order, an imperative. He closed his eyes in obedience, moved more tightly into Adam's arms, and let sleep take him.

Mulder groaned as Adam's alarm clock went off. The bedroom was unfamiliar, and he flailed for the clock unsuccessfully from where he lay in the bed before sitting up, pulling the sheets back and looking around for it with murder in his gaze. He located it, and slammed the alarm off with considerably more force than necessary. Beside him, Adam grunted something incoherent and shifted further down into the bed, taking advantage of Mulder's brief absence to steal a bigger share of the bedclothes.

'Christ, I hate mornings.' Mulder muttered. He rubbed his stubbled chin aimlessly.

The muffled shape in the bed beside him mumbled a sentence of which the only intelligible word was 'coffee'. Mulder gave him a disgusted look.

'You used to be more of a morning person than this.'

'What bloody time is it, anyway?' Adam said belligerently, surfacing from the blankets at last.

'I set it for quarter to seven.'

'Well why don't you just set it for a lot later and let me get some sleep?'

'Some of us,' Mulder said shortly, 'Have got jobs to go to.'

'At seven in the morning?' Adam snapped.

'I thought it would give us time for a shower, some breakfast...' he shrugged. 'Maybe screw each other senseless. But I'll understand if you're not up to it. A man of your age...'

Three seconds later he was pinned to the bed by his wrists with Adam straddling his body.

'I'm sensitive about my age,' Adam said.

Mulder grinned up at him. 'It's always good to know what buttons to push,' he said.

'I'll put some coffee on.'

'Gee, maybe you are a morning person after all.'

'If I have enough of an incentive, yeah. I hope you're going to make this worth my while.'

'Depends how good breakfast is,' Mulder said hopefully.

Breakfast was excellent - a leisurely affair involving coffee, croissants and English marmalade, served in bed. The two men savoured it, neither in any particular hurry to renew their intimacy now that the urgency of the previous night was gone. They were just finishing as Mulder's cellphone rang from his jacket pocket.

'Duty calls.' Adam said with a raised eyebrow. He retrieved the phone, which he tossed to Mulder, then picked up the tray with the remains of breakfast on it and took it through to his kitchen.

'It must be Scully. I forgot to call her last night. She's going to kill me,' Mulder said ruefully. He flipped the phone open. 'Mulder.'

'Mulder, where are you?' It was Scully, and she sounded angry. Mulder winced.

'Scully, I'm sorry. We went out for a meal and by the time we got back it wasn't worth coming back to the hotel so I stayed over. I know I should have checked in with you...'

His most placating tone of voice seemed to be working.

'Are you going to be finished there this morning?' Scully asked, more calmly.

'I've still got some things to check here. I'll update you when I see you. How did your autopsies go?'

'I'll update you when I see you,' Scully said dryly. 'I hope that's going to be sometime today, Mulder.'

The bed dipped as Adam got back in beside him. The innocent yet amused expression on his face made Mulder's heart sink - he knew that look of old.

'Uh... How does lunch time sound?' he asked Scully quickly. It looked like the sooner this conversation was over, the better. 'I've got to track some students down. They might not be awake until then.'

He was very aware that Adam had crawled under the covers and was moving down to the end of the bed. It was definitely time to end the call. Scully carried on regardless.

'Lunchtime would be fine. Drake's autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon so you won't have to miss it.'

'Uh, that's great, Scully. Lunchtime it is. I'll meet you at the hotel.' He tried to inject a note of finality into his voice, but Scully disregarded it.

'Actually, Mulder, we've been quite fortunate. The pathologist who's going to help me perform the initial autopsy on Drake is available today. He's dealt with several of these beheadings. I think you'll be interested to hear his conclusions...'

Mulder squirmed as he felt the lightest of kisses on his inner thigh. Strong hands touched the insides of his knees, pushing his legs further apart. A slender but firmly muscled body settled between them. Another kiss, a little higher, as Scully started talking about the lunch she'd arranged for them with the pathologist. Mulder made appropriate noises, and tried not to think about what was happening beneath the sheets. Short cropped hair, like velvet, brushed the inside of his thigh and he barely managed to hold back his gasp. Then, against the sensitive skin, lips curving in a smile then brushing in an amused whisper: 'Mulder... this is very impressive...'

*Oh Jesus.* With a growing sense of dread, Mulder realised that he was losing control of the situation fast. He moved a hand down to push Adam back down the bed. Instead he found his fingers running through the soft, spiky hair again. He really had a thing about that hair, he realised. He found himself shifting, legs spreading wider to give the other man the fullest access to him...

'Mulder, did you hear what I said?' Scully said.

'Scully, I think I'm going to have to get back to you on this.'

'Mulder is something wrong?'

Adam lightly kissed the swollen head of Mulder's penis, then engulfed it slowly between expert lips. Mulder bit back a yelp. Dear God, what was he doing with his tongue?!

'Mulder?! What's going on there?'

'Shit! Uh... I just spilt my coffee... Nothing to worry about Scully. I'll, uh, call you back...'

He slammed the cellphone down as Adam raised his head and murmured:

'Lying to an FBI agent, Fox? You ought to be punished for that...'

'I know who's going to get punished...' Mulder gasped.

'Is that a promise?' Adam said amusedly. He lowered his head again.

For Mulder the feeling of the Adam's hair lightly prickling against his inner thighs was almost as erotic as what his mouth was doing... what his hands were doing. He let his head fall back on the pillows as Adam tended to him with a practised, merciless tongue. A moment later he gave a gasp of disappointment as Adam released him.

'Wha... why?'

A finger began to lightly stroke the cleft of his ass. 'We never did get around to doing this, did we,' Adam murmured. The finger was removed, then returned, wet with saliva.

Mulder began to writhe as the finger started to probe.

'God, Adam, yes... yes... please...'

'Am I still going to be the first here, Mulder?' Adam asked, with a crooked little smile.

'Ah...ahhh... no. No. But... but I don't make a habit of doing this...'

'You want me to be gentle with you, Mulder?'

'No.' Mulder whispered. 'Hurt me. Fuck me hard, Adam... I need this so much.'

'Two fingers now. Do you like that, Mulder?'

'Oh Christ...'

'Mulder, there's lube on the nightstand.'

'Sounds like something you fix up your car with...'

'Yeah. I remember. Just pass the stuff over, will you?'

'That feels... so good.' His voice trailed off into a whisper. 'That's *so* good.'

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the intense, incredible sensations. The feeling of the knuckles moving inside him, stretching him. Hurting him, just a little, just enough. He started to make involuntary little thrusting movements onto the hand, little whimpers he couldn't quite hold back. The two fingers were removed and returned slick with lube, smoothing it with feather light touches around and just into the ring of his anus.

Adam murmured, 'I think you're ready for three fingers, Mulder. It's overkill, I know, but you seem to be enjoying this a lot.'

'Yes. Oh God, yes.' The long, slender fingers filling him, feeling inside him for... 'Oh fuck yes!'

He felt his back arch involuntarily as the pleasure shot through him like an electric current. 'Oh

God, please, Adam, do it now!'

'You're sure Mulder?' Adam asked in mock concern. He raised an eyebrow. 'I mean I wouldn't want to do this if you weren't absolutely sure...'

'God, Adam, just *do* it, you fucking bastard...'

And then, thank Christ, he didn't have to wait anymore because Adam was there, pushing his legs further back and apart, opening him, pushing into him, and he felt himself being filled by something considerably bigger than the fingers had been and for a moment it hurt, too much, and then...

Oh God. There was something indescribably good about being pinned down onto white sheets, head pushed up into soft, heavy pillows, while another man pushed and strained against him, into him. Mulder felt himself losing control fast as Adam drove into him. He heard and barely recognised his own whimpers. All he could think was *finally, finally*. It was so good... so damn good... Adam wasn't sparing him, not at all. He wrapped his legs around Adam's waist, his hands clenched into fists, gripping the sheets, taking it all, helpless and wanting it that way. He wasn't going to last long, he knew that. Christ, Adam knew what he was doing with that thing. Alternating short, quick powerful thrusts with long, slow movements that pushed into him to the hilt. Then angled, working on his prostate... Between his gasps he felt his mouth stretch in an involuntary grin even as a tear ran coldly from the corner of his eye into his hair. *It's not how big it is, it's what you do with it.* Where the hell had he heard that? Adam didn't have any problems on either count: Mulder was going to be lucky if he could walk today. The bastard was being absolutely merciless. Somewhere, far away, Mulder's whimpers were turning into sobs, and then Adam lowered his head to bite a nipple, hard, and at the same time reached between their bodies to squeeze him tightly, and that was all it took. He came, hard, and didn't even try to hold his cries back. He felt the heat flood onto his belly, then a second later deep inside him and Adam crying out too and for a moment they were part of each other and at that moment it was all that he'd ever wanted, everything, and he felt his body shaking as they both came down...

'We should have done that before,' Mulder said. He blinked lazily. Any greater movement would have been too much of an effort.

'Before you weren't ready,' Adam said. He cleaned them both off with a washcloth and settled back against Mulder, head on his shoulder.

'That was fucking incredible.' Mulder said dreamily. He wanted to go back to sleep now. Adam raised his head and kissed his mouth, then again, more deeply.

'Did I hurt you?'

'That was fucking incredible,' Mulder said again. He shifted on the bed, sated and lazy. 'I think you just single-handedly discovered a cure for jet lag. How the hell am I supposed to get any work done today after that?'

'You're not meeting your partner until lunch time. We've got the rest of the morning.'

'I've still got to check your alibi,' Mulder said, with a shade of regret.

'Like you said, you'll be lucky if any of my students get up before eleven. It won't take that long to go through my papers and receipts.'

It was a couple of hours before they got around to that particular task, but when they did, the receipts were not a problem. Adam Pierson kept such finances as he had well-organised. On the date of Naomi Redburg's murder, according to his bank statement, he had gone shopping and filled his Volvo up with petrol at an inexpensive hypermarket on the outskirts of Paris. A month earlier there had been a flight to Seattle. There was no credit card record of the flight to New York at the time of Drake's death - that had been paid for by the foundation that had employed him - but there were airline ticket stubs, a currency transaction slip for $300 worth of travellers' cheques, records of two credit card purchases in dollars made in a New York branch of Barnes and Noble and a Manhattan hotel bar bill recording the consumption of large quantities of imported beer on the night of Drake's death. Mulder took what he needed, promising to return it as soon as he'd made copies. That routine task over more quickly than he'd anticipated, they left to find Adam's seminar students.

Student housing, Mulder was rather depressed to see, was apparently the same the world over. Three of the students shared a house nearby - a big Victorian building with a tiny but incredibly unkempt front garden and a general air of neglect. The doorbell didn't work - another constant. Knocking eventually produced a hungover-looking student of about twenty, with a straggling beard, bare feet and clothes that made Adam's look like the last word in elegance.

'Michel,' Adam murmured to Mulder, as they moved into a bare hallway with chipped paintwork and worn linoleum on the floor. 'Sociology.' Mulder nodded. It explained a lot.

The cellar kitchen they were shown into inspired instant feelings of deja vu. Cheap, badly fitted formica units almost hidden beneath geological layers of books, newspapers, flyers, bills and takeout menus. Empty bottles lined the windowsill, washing up was stacked high in the sink and there was a stale smell which seemed to come from the fridge. Mulder knew that if he opened it he would find as many as six separate cartons of milk inside, all labelled in biro and all at various stages in the transformation to curd cheese. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. He'd spent three years of his life living in a house with a kitchen like this. All that was missing were the traffic cones and the bicycles propped against the wall.

Breakfast was in progress when they arrived, despite it being well past eleven. The two girls who sat around the table wore jeans and sweatshirts. Both looked hungover, but both seemed to brighten visibly when they saw their guests. Michel threw himself down on a chair beside them and took up his coffee mug in both hands as if it contained some life-giving elixir.

'Sorry to interrupt breakfast,' Adam said, giving the two girls a friendly, slightly embarrassed but nonetheless devastating smile. 'Glad we caught you in.'

'Not a problem, Dr Pierson,' the blonde said. 'There was a party last night.' She nodded toward the bottle covered windowsill. 'We're still kind of recovering.'

'This is Stacey from Washington State,' Adam said. 'Helen's from down under.'

'Hey, Doctor Pierson. What's the problem?' The dark haired Australian's eyes narrowed in mild suspicion. 'Who's the suit?'

'I'm Agent Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation,' Mulder said, flipping into official mode automatically. He ignored Adam's amused glance.

'Kind of out of your jurisdiction, aren't you Agent Mulder?' Stacey asked curiously.

'I'm temporarily attached to the Surete,' Mulder explained. 'I don't have any actual authority here.'

'So what's the problem?'

Adam ran a hand through his hair. He said sheepishly 'This is kind of embarrassing, but I need an alibi from you guys. Just to confirm you went to one of my seminars a couple of months back.'

Mulder raised an eyebrow. He wasn't the only one who had an official mode to flip into. Adam Pierson, mild-mannered grad student, had come to the fore.

'Sure,' Stacey said, with a warm smile. 'What are they saying you did, Dr Pierson?'

'Serial killer,' Adam said, with a perfectly straight face.

'We're just eliminating Dr Pierson from our enquiries,' Mulder said smoothly. 'Routine but unavoidable, I'm afraid.'

'Well Jeez, Dr Pierson, who've you been rubbing out?' Helen asked.

Adam shrugged. 'Students who hand their work in late, mostly.'

Grins from the three of them.

The two short, taped interviews covered exactly what he wanted. Both girls confirmed that they'd seen Dr Pierson on the day in question and on one other day Mulder had chosen at random, but not on a further two when Mulder knew that the other had been in the States. That finished he took names, home addresses and cellphone numbers, students having moved on considerably since the days of coin-operated pay phones. It was with some relief that he left the dark and slightly unpleasant-smelling kitchen. It was true what they said: you really couldn't go back.

Out in the street they paused to get their bearings.

'That made me feel old,' Mulder said.

'Yeah,' Adam muttered. 'Tell me about it.'

They stood on the street in silence for a moment.

'

I need to go and meet Scully.' Mulder said at last.

'Is this enough to put me in the clear?'

Adam's voice was only half joking. Mulder didn't answer.

Instead he asked, 'Adam, what do the words "come and see" mean to you?' and watched as the hazel eyes flickered, and Adam's face paled a little.

'You mean from Revelations,' Adam said, in slightly choked voice.

Mulder nodded. 'Yes. Probably.'

Adam said, very softly: '"And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death and hell followed with him."'

'You know that off by heart?' Mulder asked.

'Yeah. For some reason it stuck in my mind. What does it have to do with all this?'

'Someone wrote "come and see" in blood on a mirror in Naomi's apartment.'

Adam closed his eyes. 'Oh God...' He sounded sick. 'And Drake's place too?'

'Drake too.' Mulder said. He felt his heart sink wretchedly as his last remaining hopes that his friend had nothing to do with the killings evaporated. He'd invested a lot of himself in what had happened between them in the last twenty four hours. He'd allowed himself to start to feel, to trust, to make himself vulnerable in a way he had very few times before in his life. Now it was if his words had caused a shutter to drop down between them. In that instant everything had changed, and they were strangers again. He had wanted so badly to let himself hope, but instead he felt a growing, gut-wrenching certainty that he was going to be hurt again, and this time around it was going to be worse than before.

'Do you have any kind of theory?' Adam asked. 'Who's behind this?'

Mulder pulled himself angrily back to the matter in hand. 'We've speculated that the murders are being carried out by some kind of extreme quasi-Christian fundamentalist group that identifies with the Knights Templar,' he said. 'But you know what this is about, don't you? "Come and see" - that message was for you. It's you they're trying to find, isn't it?'

'I'm still not sure,' Adam said, almost to himself. 'I need to find out more. There are some people I have to talk to.'

'I want to arrange protection for you, Adam. You've got to tell me what's going on.'

'I'll be ok,' Adam said in a voice so tight and distant that Mulder hardly recognised it. 'But thanks. If anything happens, I'll keep you posted.'

No,' Mulder said in a low, angry voice. 'That's not enough. I need to know what's going on. Do you think I can just let you walk away from me?'

'

If you want me to stay alive, you're going to have to, Mulder. You're going to have to trust me.'

Mulder looked away and swore softly.

'All right. I trust you. I shouldn't, but I do. Here's my card. If anything happens, if you find anything out, call me on my cell. Can I meet you again? This evening? I have to know what's happening.'

'I'll call you. We'll talk about it tonight. I promise.'

'Adam...' Mulder's voice caught. 'I don't like the way this whole thing feels. Just be careful.'

'Don't worry, Mulder. I'll be careful. I'm good at that. I'll see you tonight.'

'Adam...'

'What is it?'

'Nothing. Forget it.'

Mulder watched him go silently. Then with the nagging feeling that somewhere along the line, he'd screwed up royally, he turned to go back to the hotel to meet Scully. Behind him, unnoticed, a car drove slowly into the street and pulled up just across the road from where the two men had parted. The assassin called Leigh watched until Mulder had turned the corner, going towards the nearest metro station. In the other direction, Adam headed moodily towards the Seine. Leigh smiled grimly. Now the fun began.

Lunch with Scully and her pathologist went some way towards dispelling Mulder's unhappy, edgy mood. The man was well-informed, and an expert on beheadings. That was unsurprising. Paris had been host to a disproportionate number of such deaths. As Mulder ate, Scully gave him a number of cool glances. Mulder sighed inwardly. It looked as though he was going to be paying for not calling Scully the previous evening, probably for quite a while.

The cold, clinical autopsy room was another constant in police work throughout the world. Drake's body lay pale and cold on the stainless steel autopsy table. The sound of trickling water filled the room.

Mulder gingerly pulled back the cloth that covered the severed head.

'Scully, this is getting strange.'

'Coming from you, that's worrying. What's the problem?'

'He looked exactly the same as he did eighteen years ago. He doesn't look a day older.'

'That's quite a coincidence, Mulder,' Scully said, as she selected a scalpel and held it up to the light. 'Are you trying to tell me that hippies from Maine have discovered the secret of eternal youth?'

'You know, Scully, I think that was a headline in the Weekly World News a few months back.'

'You're the one with the subscription, Mulder. '

'You saw 'Men in Black', Scully. Those papers have all the real news.'

'Mulder, how often did you see that film apart from the time you took me?'

'Not as many times as I saw 'Star Wars',' Mulder said, managing to sound slightly guilty.

Scully sighed. Sometimes she felt as though she was partnered with Doogie Mulder, MD.

'Well lack of ageing wasn't a factor in Naomi Redburg's case,' Mulder continued. 'She easily looked twenty years older than she did in 1979.'

'So how old should Arch Drake be?'

'In his fifties. His date of birth is down as 1942.'

Scully smiled humourlessly and shook her head. 'This is not the body of a man in his fifties, Mulder. This man is thirty-five years old, forty at the most. This has got to be someone else.' She turned to look at him. 'You're sure this couldn't be some relative we missed somewhere along the line?'

'This is him, Scully. Same guy.'

'I suppose it's just about possible that a fifty year old could be in this kind of condition with the right genetic make-up, the right environment, the right diet and a lot of exercise.'

'I am not sure about the diet, Agent Scully,' Lafayette said from where he stood against the wall, observing them. 'But Monsieur Drake had a room in one of his outhouses. A gymnasium. He was an accomplished swordsman, I understand.'

'It said in the report that a sword was found beside him,' Mulder interjected.

'Yes, Agent Mulder, that is correct. A bloodstained sword. But it was not the murder weapon in either this case or in the case of Madame Redburg. We are investigating a number of other, similar murders, but as yet the sword has not been identified as the murder weapon in connection with any of them.'

'Were there any other swords in the house?'

'Oui. Several. All apparently unused for many years.'

'There are too many swords in this case.' Scully muttered.

Mulder sighed. 'Yeah. Scully, Adam had a sword too. He said he used it for some kind of martial art. Kenjetsu, I think he called it.'

Scully looked at him in disbelief. 'And you didn't think it was worth mentioning? Mulder...'

'Yeah. I know. I'm going to ask him for the sword so we can eliminate him properly.'

'Agent Mulder, who is Adam?' Lafayette asked.

'A man called Adam Pierson,' Mulder said resignedly. 'The one I told you about. He's a graduate student and part time lecturer at the University of Paris. He knew both Arch Drake and Naomi Redburg, but when Redburg died he was in Paris and when Drake died he was in the US. He's not a serious suspect but he did own a sword when I knew him before.'

'Adam Pierson,' Lafayette mused. 'Why is that name familiar to me?'

'He doesn't have a criminal record here. I've already had that checked.'

'Non. No. This was in connection with another incident. It was curious, so it has stayed in my mind. Monsieur Pierson, I think, called us to halt a sword fight between two other men. It was two or three years ago now but one of the men I recognised as an American named Duncan MacLeod. Agent Mulder, if we are looking for a suspect we may do well to start there.'

'Duncan MacLeod? That's a name that's come up in connection with some of the deaths in the US. Who was he fighting?'

'A Monsieur Kalas. The murderer of another American, a Donald Salzer. Kalas was not a pleasant man.'

'Kalas. Is that a French name?'

'I do not know. It does not matter. The man escaped from prison - two guards were killed and there were four further deaths before he himself was killed. We believe that Monsieur MacLeod returned and finished what he had started.'

'Very public spirited of him,' Scully commented.

'But there's no proof that he was involved?' Mulder asked.

'No, Agent Mulder,' Lafayette said with a shrug. 'With Monsieur MacLeod there is never any proof. Ordinarily there would have been at least a recording on the closed circuit television. Not of the fight - that would be too much to hope for - but of Monsieur MacLeod going towards or away from the scene at the time of the incident. But this night, there was a severe storm. Every security tape recorded that evening in the whole of central Paris was wiped clean.'

'There was electrical damage at Drake's house too.'

'What are you suggesting, Agent Mulder?'

'I have absolutely no idea. If I come up with a theory to explain it, I'll let you know.'

His cellphone chose that moment to trill insistently.

Lafayette shook his head. 'I'll fetch us all some coffee, Agent Mulder.'

Mulder nodded. 'You have no idea how badly I need it.' He snapped the phone open. 'Mulder.'

'Mulder? Skinner. They've found another body.'

'Beheaded, sir?'

'Yes. Then dumped in the sea off the coast of New Jersey. So far the head hasn't turned up.'

'Were we able to make an identification?'

'Yes. The body was in the water for at least a month but we picked up some partial fingerprints from his belt and shoes. The victim was identified as a 26 year old Caucasian male named Jack Merchant. He vanished a month ago from his apartment in New Jersey. He had several drugs related convictions so Violent Crimes are working on the theory that this is gang related. He's too young to have been involved in your case but I'm having the photograph from his driver's license faxed to you so that you can eliminate him.'

'Can we tell if the same weapon was used as in either of the other cases?'

'Given the state of decomposition and without the head it's difficult to tell, but this time Forensics think the weapon was a chainsaw.'

'Ouch,' Mulder said dryly. 'Any repetition of the slogan, sir?'

'Not this time, Agent Mulder. I'll send you the full autopsy report as soon as we have it.'

'Thank you, sir. There's a fax down here if you want to send the photograph directly.'

'I have the number, Agent Mulder. The fax is on its way.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Another one?' Scully asked wearily, from where she bent over Drake's body.

Mulder nodded. 'The name doesn't ring any bells. Skinner's faxing me his driver's license. He doesn't think this one's connected.'

As if on cue the fax machine in the corner clicked and whined into life. Mulder bent over it, watched as the blown up picture inched its way out.

After a moment, Scully said: 'Mulder, this guy is fascinating.'

'What about him?'

'He's the healthiest man of his age I've ever seen. Mulder, there's no fatty congestion at all within the heart muscle or the arteries. Minimal muscle deterioration...'

'Scully...'

'He has the skin tone of a man twenty years younger, a perfect liver, kidneys...'

'Scully!'

'Mulder, what?'

'Come and look at this.'

'Skinner's fax? What about it?'

'This guy was at the camp. This is... this was Jacques. This was the guy who called himself Jacques Lemarchand.'

They both looked at the picture in silence.

'Mulder, the date of birth on this driver's license is January 1971.'

'Yeah. I noticed that too.'

'That means that if this had been the man you knew in Maine he would have been eight years old. You've made a mistake, Mulder. This isn't the same person.'

Mulder looked at her and saw his confusion reflected in her face.

'It's him, Scully. In 1979 he looked exactly like this. He looks in his early twenties now, and he looked in his early twenties then.'

'Mulder, you know that's not possible. Could the driver's license be faked?'

'I guess it would have to be but that doesn't explain the photograph.'

'Old photograph.' Scully said, with a shrug.

'Not that old. See the t-shirt he's wearing? Pulp Fiction. The guy's a Quentin Tarantino fan. This could have been taken at any time in the last three years but not any earlier.'

'Mulder, it's possible that Drake, Merchant and your friend Pierson are all just incredibly well preserved for their age and it's more than likely that Merchant's driving license was faked or obtained using false documentation. Maybe they both had plastic surgery.'

Even Scully didn't sound too convinced.

'I don't buy it, Scully. This doesn't make any sense. I need to go and talk to Adam again.'

'I'll stay here. There are some other tests I want to arrange.' Scully said.

'What have you got in mind?'

'First of all, DNA. I know you don't like it, Mulder, but I want to see if Jack Merchant or whatever he called himself is Arch Drake's son.'

'I suppose it's worth a try but I'm pretty sure it's going to come up negative.'

'Even if it does it might give us some kind of insight into why none of these people seem to have aged, Mulder. Has it occurred to you that this sort of longevity might be genetic?'

'You think Adam might be part of the family as well? Scully...'

Scully raised a placating hand. 'I'm just saying it's a possibility, Mulder.'

'Forget it, Scully. This is getting ridiculous. You're going to suggest that Jack Merchant was Naomi Redburg and Arch Drake's lovechild next. You're making this whole thing sound like... like an episode of Melrose Place.'

'Mulder, what exactly do you know about Adam Pierson? Did he tell you *anything* about himself? About his family, where he came from? What his relationship with Drake was?'

Mulder sighed. 'All right, Scully. I'll ask him if Drake's got any dark secrets in his past then I'll ask him if *he's* got any dark secrets in his past. Satisfied?'

'One other thing, Mulder.'

'Yeah?'

'Do you remember the last case of unusual longevity we dealt with?'

Mulder closed his eyes. 'Scully, no. Forget it. Don't go there. There is no connection between this case and Chako Chicken.'

'Beheadings were a feature of that case too, Mulder.'

'Scully, I lived with these people for almost two weeks. If they were cannibals I would have noticed.'

'Fine, Mulder. But I'm still going to run some tests to eliminate it as a possibility.'

'You're wasting your time, Scully,' Mulder said, a little more angrily than he'd intended.

Scully gave him a withering look.

'And you're losing your objectivity, Mulder.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean, Scully?'

'It means you're well on the way to becoming emotionally involved with a suspect, Mulder. He may not have been a suspect when we started this but he's sure as hell heading that way now. Have you considered what his motives are, Mulder? Why he's being so friendly after all these years? In 1979 he didn't even give you his forwarding address!'

'Scully...' Mulder began angrily.

'Mulder, you're going to have to face that fact that you had a hell of crush on this guy when you were a teenager and now it's affecting your judgement...'

'A *crush* Scully?'

'Mulder, are you really telling me that the two of you spent all last night and this morning going through his old photo albums?'

Mulder had the grace to blush a little. 'And there's something you should bear in mind for the future, Mulder.' Scully continued. 'Banging a mobile phone down doesn't usually end the call.'

'Oh.'

Lafayette chose that moment to return with the coffee.

'Agent Mulder, you're looking a little flushed,' he said, with mild concern.

*Yeah.* Mulder thought. *I just bet I am.*

He stalked out of the mortuary in a grim mood. The worst of it was that he knew Scully was right. He was being unprofessional, to put the kindest interpretation on it. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that he was being used. The emotional connection had been instant and genuine, on both sides. There had been such unconditional joy in each other. The sex had been easy and incredible. It had felt so... so right.

It was time to find Adam again and talk - really talk, and with the thought of going to find the other came both a glow of warm, unreasoning joy and a knot of grinding apprehension deep within him. He turned abruptly on the pavement, heading back towards the University of Paris and Adam's office, and collided hard and clumsily with an English tourist.

'Sorry,' the other muttered.

Mulder made his own apology and shook his head. The English apologised for everything. It was a way of life. If you shot an Englishman he'd probably say sorry for getting in the way of your bullet. Rubbing a bruise on his leg he started to walk towards the Metro. He made it a block and a half before he realised that he really was feeling hot and flushed. *Probably that damn fish last night* he thought sourly. He leant against a wall to try to recover for a moment, but the weakness and nausea grew steadily worse. The world blurred. Slowly he felt himself sliding towards the ground. The last things he remembered were a nondescript, blue car drawing to a halt at the kerb nearby and an arm supporting him towards it. Then there wasn't anything else at all.

*****

Adam was swearing softly as he almost ran back to the barge. *Come and see. Damn! I thought that was finally over! God, what a bloody mess!*

He burst in, and found Duncan standing tensely in the centre of the living quarters, katana in hand. He relaxed as Adam entered.

'Ever heard of knocking, Methos?' he snapped.

'Where's Joe?' Adam asked shortly. 'He's not at the bar.'

'What's the problem?'

'I need access to the watcher database right away. I need his authorisation codes.'

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing I can't deal with, OK?'

'I take it the reunion didn't go so well, then,' Duncan said mildly. He sheathed his katana and sat back down on the long couch.

'The reunion went fine. Not that it's any of your business,' Adam replied shortly.

'My, but you're in a bad temper, Methos,' Duncan said with a raised eyebrow.

'All right, Mac,' Adam snapped. 'What *exactly* is your problem?'

'You seem to be the one with the problem, Methos,' Duncan said sweetly.

Adam sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands.

'I don't need this, MacLeod.'

'So, you met, he told you about his wife, his kids, his career in middle management, his nice house and his nice car. It happens, Methos. After all that time you can't expect the old connection still to be there. He was only a kid when you knew him before...'

'For your information Mac, he doesn't have a wife, kids or a place in the suburbs. There is quite definitely still a connection.'

'So what's the problem, Methos?'

Adam sighed and looked up at the other immortal.

'It's his job, Mac.'

'His *job*? How bad could it be?'

'How bad can you imagine?'

'Come on Methos,' Duncan said flatly. 'Don't keep me in suspense.'

'He's an FBI agent. He's working with the Surete on a recent series of mysterious beheadings.'

'What?!' Duncan growled. 'Methos, tell me this is just a bad, bad joke.'

'You heard. And it gets better. He's managed to link it back to Drake's half-assed sanctuary in Maine. That's where the big problems start.'

'Go on,' Duncan said grimly.

Adam sighed. 'Naomi Redburg and Arch Drake were killed by the same people. I think someone's worked out that Methos was at the sanctuary. He's working his way through the immortals and the mortals who lived there, one by one, trying to track me down.'

'That's a bit of a leap, isn't it?'

'I didn't survive this long without being just a little bit paranoid. I'm guessing whoever this guy is he followed Mulder and now he's got another name to add to his list. I was followed part of the way here.'

'An immortal?' Duncan asked tensely.

'No.'

'Then it could have been the police. Is he still there?'

'I lost him in the metro, but whoever he is he's good. I don't think he's Surete.'

'What about the DGSE?'

'Nah. Secret service would have had more people along.'

'Maybe they did. Maybe you just didn't see them.'

Adam gave him a flat look. Duncan sighed.

'Ok, so there was just one of him. How do you know he isn't working with this Mulder?'

'No. Not Mulder,' Adam said with complete certainty.

'You haven't seen him in seventeen or eighteen years. A lot can change in that time.'

Adam shook his head. 'No. Not him. I've never been more sure of anything, Mac.'

'He's an FBI agent, Adam.'

'Mac, I think he's pre-immortal.'

'What?'

'I think he's pre-immortal, but I don't know. I'm not sure.'

'How can you not be sure, man? He's either pre-immortal or he isn't.'

'I was the only person at the camp who picked up on it. It's very, very faint. I only really even noticed it the first time...'

'The first time you had sex?'

'Well, yeah.'

'You seduced a teenage kid. I thought it had to be something like that.'

'So now we get to what your problem is,' Adam said with weary sarcasm.

'I'd say I had a problem with it, yes,' Duncan said angrily, putting his coffee cup down a little more heavily than necessary.

'MacLeod, I don't have time to argue the ethics of this with you. I didn't seduce him. Let's just leave it at that.'

'He was a kid, Methos. From what you said he was at a vulnerable time in his life. You could have totally screwed up his whole sexuality.'

'Look, MacLeod, I may know my way around a bed but I've never changed anyone's sexuality single handed. It doesn't work like that. Why am I arguing about this with you anyway? Put it on your big, long list of ways I've disappointed you and save it for sometime when I'm not being hunted down for my head. The only reason I came here was to find Joe.'

'Right here.' The voice made them turn abruptly towards the door. Joe stood leaning patiently against the door frame. 'Sorry to interrupt the argument, gentlemen. Want me to come back later?'

'No, Joe,' Adam said quickly. 'Don't go. I need to know who killed Drake. It's important.'

'It's an easy question to answer,' Joe said. 'We don't have the faintest idea.'

'Did Drake's watcher get any photographs? There's a chance I might recognise the guy.'

'What's the problem, Adam?' Joe asked, frowning a little at the urgency in the other's voice.

'Why don't you sit down, Joe?' Duncan said, with a glare at Adam. 'It's a long, convoluted story.'

'I've had a long, convoluted kind of life,' Adam snapped back. 'Ok, Joe. It's like this...'

The story didn't sound much more convincing than it had the first time around with Duncan. Of course he'd already made up his mind to keep the 'Come and See' part of it to himself. The fiasco with the Horsemen was still too fresh. He didn't want to put a strain on his still painfully uncertain relationship with either Joe or Duncan by bringing it up again. When he'd finished Joe leant back and pursed his lips.

'From the evidence you've got you really think someone's using this Mulder to track you down? Two deaths which may or may not be associated and someone who may or may not have been following you this morning?'

'Let's just take it as read that I'm a little paranoid at the moment, Joe.' He caught Joe's snort and Duncan's raised eyebrow and rolled his eyes. 'Ok, so I'm always a little paranoid. That doesn't mean they're not out to get me. I know that the killings are linked and someone was after me this morning. Given that I may as well assume the worst. It's a strategy that's never failed me in the past.'

'Well I know *we* haven't got anyone on you,' Joe said. 'I'll find out what I can about Drake's death. You think we've got an immortal who's hiring mortals to track down targets?'

'I don't know. That's why I need to find out who killed Drake. The chances are it's the same person who set this guy on me.'

Duncan's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

'You've had people coming after you before, Methos. Why don't you do what you always do? Drop out of sight for a while. Fake your death, get out of Paris and come back when things have quietened down.'

Adam stood abruptly and began to pace the narrow room.

'Not this time. It's not that simple anymore, Mac. Whoever's after me, I've got to take him out.'

'Why? What's so special about this one?'

'I don't like the way this feels, Mac. He's coming after me and I don't think he's working on his own. I think there's more than one immortal involved in this.'

'How can you tell that? You're overreacting, Methos.'

'After five thousand years you trust your instincts, Mac. This feels different. They're not going to stop until I'm dead and they'll kill anyone who gets in the way. They killed Naomi and Drake just because I had contact with them for a couple of months almost twenty years back. I don't want anyone else getting hurt.'

'You mean this Mulder.'

'Yeah.'

Joe sighed. 'Adam, the only way you're going to help your friend is if you get out of town and draw them away from him.'

'Right. Then I really do get to be the number one suspect in Drake's murder.'

'Adam, there's absolutely no evidence that you were anywhere near Drake's house when he died,' Joe argued. 'You've got nothin' to worry about.'

'Yes, Joe, but Adam Pierson, mild mannered ex-watcher, does not need to go on Surete or watcher files as chief suspect in a beheading.'

'You've never been that worried about your reputation before,' Joe said. 'Come on, Adam. You can't have it both ways. What's this really about?'

'Ok, Joe. I don't want to leave Mulder to get hurt and I don't want him to be the one who ends up hunting me down. I think that sums it up.'

'This thing you've got with him is pretty serious, isn't it,' Joe said.

Adam nodded and looked down to where his hands were loosely clasped between his knees.

'Yeah. It could get that way.'

'Any point in my telling you it's doomed from the start?'

'Not much. It hasn't worked noticeably in the past.'

'He's an FBI agent, Adam. You aren't going to be able to hide what you are from him for very

long,' Joe said gently. 'Besides which he could be thrown out of his job just for having a relationship with another man. That's a lot of baggage to be carrying into a new relationship.'

'I never said it was going to be easy, Joe.'

'I think you're both forgetting something,' Duncan interrupted. 'Someone's after your head, Methos, or did it slip your mind?'

Adam stood. 'No. It didn't slip my mind. I'll get out of Paris. There's an abandoned keep I spent some time at once, in Provence near Mount Pelat. It's a good place for a fight. If anyone comes round asking just point them in the right direction. I'll deal with them there.'

'Let me come with you,' Duncan said.

Adam shook his head. 'No thanks, Mac. I'll handle this on my own.'

'And what if there is more than one of them?'

'I said I'd handle it, Mac,' Adam said, firmly but without anger. 'I don't need your help. Joe, if you can get those pictures I'll catch you back at the bar in a couple of hours. And you both watch your backs for a few days.'

'Always do,' Joe said. 'Later, Adam.'

Joe and Duncan watched Adam stalk out.

'You get the feeling there's something he isn't telling us?' Joe asked thoughtfully.

'Always,' Duncan said. He went abruptly to one of the cupboards and pulled out a flight bag.

'What are you doing?' Joe asked carefully.

'What does it look like I'm doing? I'm packing. I'm going to follow him down to Provence.'

'He said he didn't want your help,' Joe reminded him dryly.

I'm going after him, Joe. That's not open to argument.'

'He doesn't want you there.'

'That's never stopped him, Joe. Besides, if he didn't want me there he wouldn't have told me where he was going.'

'Mac, let him fight his own battles. There's got to be a good reason why he doesn't want you involved with this.'

'Something else to add to my big, long list of ways he's disappointed me?' Duncan said, with more than a shade of bitterness. Joe shrugged.

'Could be, Mac. Maybe he just doesn't want to strain your friendship any further. It's taken quite a beating over the last few months.'

'Yeah. It's taken such a beating he'd rather get himself killed than come to me for help.'

Joe looked at him, then laughed shortly.

'What, Joe?'

'The two of you driving each other nuts. If you don't drive me nuts too I'm looking forward to seeing which one of you cracks first. Tell me, Mac. What do you see in him?'

'You're supposed to be his friend, Joe,' Duncan said stiffly.

'I am his friend. I just thought maybe you could use some clarification.'

'He's a sarcastic, cynical slob,' Duncan said, starting to stuff clothes into the flight bag with more violence than was absolutely necessary. 'He's manipulative and calculating. And those are his good qualities.'

'You know what he thinks of you? He thinks you're uptight, infuriating and judgmental.'

Duncan gave him a short, tight smile.

'You know, I kind of guessed he might.'

'So why does it matter so much to you both that the other one stays alive? Why don't you just say your farewells and go your separate ways? It's a big planet. You wouldn't have to bump into each other more than a couple of times a century. And yet, here you go, off to Provence to butt in where you're not wanted to rescue someone who doesn't need rescuing.'

Duncan looked up from his packing in irritation.

'Did someone sell you the 'Dear Abby' franchise or something, Joe?'

'I'm a bartender. Relationship counselling goes with the turf.'

'We do not *have* a *relationship*, Joe,' Duncan said, heavily emphasising each word.

'Sure you don't. Think about it, Mac. I'll see you at the bar sometime.'

He left, and Duncan was in the process of zipping up the flight bag when his telephone rang. He let out a grunt of irritation when he heard the familiar voice on the other end.

'What do you want, Methos?'

'Just to know if you'd finished packing yet.'

'I don't know what you mean,' Duncan said curtly.

'You aren't going to ride in on a white charger to rescue me? I'm disappointed.'

'Did this call have a point, Methos?'

'Yeah. I can look after myself, Mac. You have to stay in Paris and look after Joe. It's not going to take much to find out that he's an old friend of mine. He's an easy target, Mac. Don't let him get hurt.'

The line went dead and Duncan muttered an ancient Gaelic oath at the handset as he slammed it down. In the distance he could see Joe walking slowly along the embankment, back towards his car. Biting back another oath, nastier and even more ancient than the first, he pulled his coat on and ran to follow.

***

Mulder woke slowly. His head felt thick. It ached dully, but with the promise that if he moved it the pain would get a lot worse. There was a peculiarly foul taste in his mouth. Drugged, he guessed. He was propped up in a sitting position, his hands tied behind him. Beneath him the floor was hard, rough and cold. Whatever he rested against was flat and slatted. The side of a wooden crate, maybe. Without moving, without opening his eyes, he tried to work out what he could of his surroundings. Somewhere big, somewhere cool. There was an echo in the air and the sound of water lapping against a dock or a shore. There was a high, tinny rattling sound in the distance, strangely familiar...

'I know that you're awake, Mr Mulder.' The voice was English, the accent decidedly upmarket. A man's voice, fairly young. 'There isn't any point in pretending that you're still unconscious. I calculated the dosage of the drug quite carefully. Given your body weight and what I know of your tolerance to alcohol you should have woken some five minutes ago.'

Mulder kept his eyes closed, and remained silent. The Englishman sighed.

'Mr Mulder, you really don't have all that much time left and this is a conversation I've been looking forward to for quite some time. I appreciate that the circumstances are hardly ideal but I had hoped that you'd have the grace to rise to the occasion.'

Mulder opened his eyes and said furiously 'All right. You want to have a conversation? Let's have a conversation. Let's start with what the hell you want and what the hell's going on.'

The sandy-haired man sprawled casually in front of him gave him a warm smile. He was wearing a suit, but no tie. Savile Row, Mulder decided. Hand tailored, understated, casual and extremely expensive.

'That's better, Mr Mulder,' the man said approvingly.

'Who are you?' Mulder bit out.

'Please, call me Mr Leigh, Mr Mulder.'

Mulder didn't bother to ask if it was his real name.

'That's not what I meant,' he said grimly.

'You would like to know my role in this drama,' Leigh said good-humouredly. 'At this point, of course, that it's traditional to roll out the euphemisms, but I won't insult you by telling you that I'm a "disposal specialist". I'm an assassin, Mr Mulder. I'm hired to kill people. I don't like to be immodest but it's something that I'm really extremely good at.'

'So I'm going to be murdered in cold blood by the very best. That's reassuring,' Mulder said. He tried to keep the edge of hysteria out of his voice.

Leigh ran a hand through his sandy hair.

'You joke, Mr Mulder, but my employment in the particular task is in part at least a reflection of your reputation in the eyes of my employers. I read your file with enormous interest, by the way. Your career has been fascinating.'

'Tell me, Mr Leigh,' Mulder grated. 'Do you enjoy what you do? Do you get off on this? What do you get out of it?'

'It's my job, Mr Mulder,' Leigh said, as if it was obvious. 'I'm paid a very great deal of money for it. I suppose there's always some enjoyment in performing a task well. Certainly there's a need for my work.'

'Yeah. Don't tell me,' Mulder said grimly. 'It's a public service.'

'There have been some occasions when that's actually been the case,' Leigh said. 'I arranged an accident for a gentleman on a yacht a few years ago which almost certainly fell into that category. But we're wandering off the subject...'

Mulder pulled fiercely at his bonds, not really expecting them to give.

'Mr Mulder,' Leigh said, rather flatly. 'I take pride in my work. You're quite secure and not uncomfortable and if you persist in trying to escape you're only going to hurt yourself. You may as well just sit back and we will both wait for your friend Mr Pierson to arrive. It's entirely up to you, but it would be rather pleasant to have a discussion while we're waiting, security professional to security professional.' He sighed. 'It's rare that I have the opportunity to discuss my work. My wife is uninterested, my clients are interested only in results and I'm afraid that most of my contemporaries tend towards the generic.'

'The generic?' Mulder asked, with a kind of wonder in his voice. Why was he calmly sitting here discussing this man's problems? Wasn't he the one with problems?

'Intellectually limited,' Leigh continued. 'Thuggish. Unimaginative. All exactly the same. The individuality bred out of them.'

'Like the staff at MacDonalds,' Mulder said, light-headedly. 'Maybe they should wear name badges. "Hi, my name is Alex and I'm your human asset disposal specialist for this evening."'

'Exactly, Mr Mulder,' Leigh said, with another warm smile. 'You joke, but you're quite right. It's become a trade, like plumbing. There's no artistry any more.'

'And you're an artist?' Mulder couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

'I like to think of myself as an artist. Do you mind if I smoke, Mr Mulder?'

'Would it matter if I did?'

'I suppose not,' Leigh said mildly. 'But I prefer to observe the pleasantries.'

'If you want to leave forensic evidence lying around the place that's your business,' Mulder said sourly.

Leigh smiled. 'That is precisely the intention, Mr Mulder.' He pulled out a packet of Morleys and lit one inexpertly. 'These American cigarettes are foul things. I prefer cigars, myself. Maybe the occasional pipe...'

'You're not working for the Consortium,' Mulder said, in a kind of daze.

'Good God no,' Leigh said, and there was tolerant laughter in his voice. 'I don't think it's betraying too much to say that they have nothing whatsoever to do with this. They don't hire assassins. They have their own people. Now I wonder, Mr Mulder, if during your time in the Violent Crimes you ever came across any of my work?'

'Apart from Naomi Redburg?'

'Apart from Miss Redburg, yes.'

'So you did kill her,' Mulder said grimly. 'What about Drake? Did you murder him too?'

'You already know that I didn't, Mr Mulder,' Leigh said reprovingly. The word 'murder' did not seem to offend him. 'It's rather strange. I prefer to work in Europe. I would have expected to have been assigned Mr Drake and Mr Pierson. Instead I've spent three months in the United States, scarcely home territory. I suggested a number of American operatives but my employer was insistent that I carry out the work personally.'

'Your employer?'

'Come now, Mr Mulder. I can't divulge the names of my clients.'

'You're going to kill me. Does it really matter?'

'It's a matter of professionalism, Mr Mulder. Professionalism is everything. In any case, I would be extremely surprised if my contact had given me her real name.'

'A woman? Why even tell me that much?'

'It's not going to make much of a difference at this stage, especially since the lady in question is on her way here now.'

'Am I going to meet her?'

'If your friend Pierson arrives first, no,' Mr Leigh said, without much regret. 'It's him they want. You are incidental. As soon we have him your part in this will be finished. You understand that it's nothing personal. As a professional courtesy I'll make your death as painless as possible.'

'I'm so grateful,' Mulder said through gritted teeth. He tugged at the bonds again. Leigh gave him an amused and weary look and threw the cigarette end far out into the water.

'Mustn't make it too obvious for Mr Skinner,' he explained. 'And of course the water will degrade any traces of DNA. Mr Skinner is almost as thorough as I am.'

Mulder sat back with his eyes closed and forced himself to relax. This maniac wants to talk. Take advantage of it, Mulder.

'So why do your people want Adam? Is it something that happened in Maine?'

'I haven't got the faintest idea, Mr Mulder. I don't ask questions, I just fulfil assignments. All I know is that they've been looking for him for a very long time.'

'And you were the one who found him?'

'Certainly I assisted, but I can't claim all the credit.'

'Jacques started it, didn't he? Jacques Lemarchand or Jack Merchant or whatever he called himself. He was the first one to be killed. He told you what you needed, that Adam was at the camp. You weren't interested in anyone else there. You only wanted to find Adam.'

'Well done, Mr Mulder. You're quite right. I wasn't involved at that point, only when it became clear that tracking Mr Pierson down was going to be problematic. You know, it's fascinating to see the way your mind works. Even though I don't usually operate in the States I'm quite grateful that you chose not to remain a profiler.'

'But you didn't know exactly who you were looking for, which was why you killed the others first. They were the only people you could trace.'

'The information that Mr Merchant supplied was incomplete,' Leigh agreed. 'He'd been hitting the cocaine rather hard for a couple of decades.'

'Didn't that seem strange to you? That Merchant looked exactly the same as he did twenty years ago? His driving license said that his date of birth was 1970.'

'I imagine it was forged, Mr Mulder. As for his appearance, I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that he'd had plastic surgery. Drake too, probably.'

'Probably,' Mulder said dully. 'So you killed Redburg, and she didn't know anything. Drake didn't tell you either.'

'As I said, I didn't have anything to do with Mr Drake's death. My employers wanted to deal with him themselves.' A shrug that reminded him of Lafayette. 'Obviously that one was personal.'

Employers. More than one. Another precious fragment of information to file away with the rest.

'There's something different about them,' Mulder said. 'Drake and Adam and Merchant. Something they've got in common. Some reason why your employers are killing them themselves. I think it's something to do with the fact that none of them has aged at all in the last twenty years.'

'Perhaps,' Leigh said uninterestedly. 'As I said, I don't ask questions, Mr Mulder.'

'And the beheadings. There's a reason for that too. Maybe not in Naomi's case, that was just protective coloration, but Drake and Merchant had to die that way.'

'Mr Mulder, perhaps I haven't made this clear. I don't ask questions of my employers.'

Mulder took a deep breath. He was so damned close he could feel it, but his captor was starting to sound slightly annoyed. This was not the time to push it.

'So when did you make the breakthrough, Mr Leigh? How did you finally work out who Adam was?'

'Oh we didn't, Mr Mulder. You did that for us.'

*Oh Christ, no.* 'I don't understand.' Mulder said, and his voice sounded sick even to himself.

'While my employers were tracking Mr Drake down I remained in Maine. Jacques had given us only your first name. 'A kid named Fox', he said, 'and an Adam something'. Pearce, maybe. Not much to go on, Mr Mulder.'

'So tell me how you did it, Mr Leigh.' His voice was so cold and bitter he hardly recognised it.

'It was a rather satisfying breakthrough. A missing persons report filed by a Mr Jenks of which you were the subject. You have no idea how many thousands of pieces of paper I had to read through to get that information. We had very little co-operation from the local sheriff's office in the matter.'

*Fuck you, Herb,* Mulder thought bitterly. 'Sometimes I don't know what I pay my taxes for,' he muttered. Leigh ignored him.

'Of course, from what Merchant said we had no idea that Fox was your real name. Once we'd worked that out it made things a lot simpler. We had a deadline to work to, after all.'

'A deadline? When for?'

Leigh cast him a pitying glance, but otherwise ignored the question.

'Knowing your name speeded things up considerably. There are a great many Adam Pearces and Piersons, especially when the field includes both Europe and the United States, but there is only one Fox William Mulder.'

Thanks, mom. Mulder thought, with resignation.

'Your work meant that the Redburg murder would be brought to your attention, provided it was outré enough. Thus her beheading. Once you had made the connection with Mr Drake and your time in Maine you would track down and warn Mr Pierson. Was he your lover, as a matter of interest? Your cousin certainly seemed to think so.'

Mulder ignored that. 'So why the writing on the wall?'

'I'm sure you'll work it out if you think about it,' Leigh said. He watched Mulder with mild interest.

Mulder took a deep breath, then another. 'Two murders, two different perpetrators, two different continents. Maybe Redburg just ran into a serial killer. Maybe Drake just pissed off the wrong people. It could just barely have been a coincidence. The graffiti ruled that possibility out completely. It meant that the murders had to be linked.'

'Well done, Mr Mulder. It would be interesting to know why that particular wording was used, but...'

'Yeah. I know. You don't ask questions. Did you arrange for me to be assigned to help the investigation here?'

'I don't have that kind of influence, Mr Mulder. That's not to say that someone else didn't.'

'So I led you right to him. Why kidnap me? Why not just take him off the street?'

'Didn't you know, Mr Mulder?' Leigh asked, in some surprise. 'Mr Pierson has disappeared.'

***

'Come on Mulder.' Scully muttered under her breath. 'Answer.'

She sat on the edge of Lafayette's untidy desk. She'd been trying to get through to Mulder on and off for about an hour. During that time mild irritation had changed to exasperation, which in its turn was becoming fear. Mulder always answered his phone first time. He'd answered while Pierson was going down on him, for God's sake. She wondered briefly whether he was still sulking after their argument earlier, but dismissed the thought. If he didn't want to speak to her, for whatever reason, he'd have turned his phone off and left her fuming at his voice mail service.

'Agent Scully, is anything wrong?' Lafayette had returned and was standing uncertainly in the doorway. Scully nodded.

'Mulder should have been back by now, or he should have called to tell me he'd been delayed. He's not answering his cellphone but he hasn't switched it off either.'

'Where did he go?'

'Back to the University offices to speak to Pierson.'

'Do you know which building, Agent Scully? What was Pierson studying?'

'Art history, I think. I know his office is just a few blocks away from here.'

'Then we'll go and see if he arrived there.'

They made their way out to the front of the station. *One last try* Scully thought. She pulled out her mobile and speed dialled him again. A familiar, distant trill met her ears, so faint that she barely registered it. But when it stopped as soon as she cut off the call both she and Lafayette paused.

'It came from inside the station,' Lafayette said. 'Try again.'

She redialled.

'It's from the enquiry office.' Lafayette said, turning his head from side to side. 'This way.'

He unlocked the door that led from the public area into the offices behind with his pass key. Scully slipped through ahead of him, to the desk behind the high sheet of glass that separated the enquiry staff from the public. The trilling was coming from a box on a shelf underneath the counter. Lafayette knelt beside her as she pulled it out from a tangle of purses, umbrellas, watches and wallets. The cellphone was identical to her own. Mulder's. She cut her own phone off again. The ringing stopped instantly.

'Where did this come from?' she demanded. 'Who handed this in?'

Lafayette took over smoothly, talking to the desk clerk in fluent French, asking questions. The man searched through a sheaf of papers, pulling out a form, handing it to the detective. Scully tried to pick up what she could from tone of voice and expression: Lafayette's voice angry, the clerk defensive. Not for the first time, she wished that she had at least Mulder's grasp of the French language. Even a few words would have helped.

Lafayette said: 'The cellphone was handed in almost an hour ago. The clerk says that he has been too busy to answer it, he is not a message service.' he shook his head disgustedly. 'The woman who picked it up reported that she saw a man taken ill a few streets away. Someone in a car stopped to help him and the phone fell out of his coat when he was being helped into the car.'

Scully shook her head. 'Either he's incapacitated or he's being held against his will. Otherwise he'd have found a way to get me a message by now.'

They looked at each other for a moment. 'Let's get back to my office.' Lafayette said. 'I'll have one of my men ring the hospitals.' He moved back towards the stairs, so quickly that Scully almost had to run to keep up with him.

'What about the woman who handed the phone in?'

'She didn't leave a telephone number, only an address. I'll send someone out to find her. As soon as I've arranged that we'll go to the CCTV control centre. There may be a tape of what happened.'

'They've had an hour. They could be out of Paris by now.'

'You think this is a kidnapping?'

'I don't think Mulder was taken ill. He was fine just before he left.'

'Do you think this Adam Pierson is involved somehow?'

'I think he's in it up to his neck,' Scully said. *Damn Mulder!* Why did he keep doing this to her?

'Then I'll have his office and his apartment checked. We'll put out an all points bulletin on him and his car. If he's in central Paris, we'll find him.'

'I need to tell Skinner what's happened.'

'You can call him from my office.'

The next hour was nightmarish. Skinner was concerned and furious and it was all that Scully could do to talk him out of coming over on the next plane. Lafayette made call after call. Adam Pierson was not in his apartment or his office, nor had he been there all day. Someone else, however, had. The apartment had been broken into. The office had been unobtrusively searched. The woman who had handed Mulder's mobile in had returned from her shopping to find two detectives waiting on her doorstep... The car was blue, not a big car, she had told them, driven by a well-dressed woman with the man as a passenger. She hadn't seen the number, but she could tell them exactly where it had happened. Someone produced the CCTV tapes covering the streets between the station and the place where Mulder had been snatched. Scully watched with the six or seven other detectives who had quickly been assigned to the disappearance. The Surete were taking this seriously.

'It's a very professional kidnapping,' Lafayette said, giving her a soft commentary as the tape ran. 'The accidental collision. The administration of the drug. Probably a short, very fine needle concealed in the edge of the sports bag. It's a heavy bag so the pain of the bruise would have masked the puncture wound. This is certainly a professional. Did you see the way he positioned himself? Always facing away from the cameras. Then he gets into the blue car and the driver circles around the block. The kidnapper assumes correctly that Mulder will return to Pierson's office and he times it so he'll meet Mulder just as the drug begins to take effect.'

'What about the car? Have you identified it?'

'Stolen half an hour beforehand from an all day car park. We found it abandoned on a side street. They must have changed cars almost as soon as they left the area of Central Paris covered by CCTV.'

'But that's not Pierson,' Scully said. 'Is it... what did you say his name was? MacLeod?'

'Agent Scully, if you had seen MacLeod you would not forget him. He is a very big man. Very handsome. This isn't him, and the woman isn't MacLeod's associate.'

'Could MacLeod have been Drake's killer?'

'Baigent didn't identify him. My feeling is that he was not. From what I know of MacLeod he's not a clumsy man. On the contrary, he is very graceful. He wouldn't have caused the mess at Drake's cottage.'

'I think I need to speak to him.'

'Baigent?'

'MacLeod,' Scully said.

'I can't bring him in, Agent Scully. I have no grounds to do so yet.'

'I just need to talk to him. I'll go to him. What about MacLeod's associate?'

'Her name is Amanda Darieux. A professional thief. It's hard to tell from the tape but I don't believe that's her. She is a brunette, very slender, younger than this. We suspect her in a number of major jewel thefts but other than that we don't have much information about her.'

Scully nodded, and pursed her lips. Her face took on an expression of unshakeable determination.

'Do you know where MacLeod lives?'

'On a barge on the Seine, quite near the Isle de Paris. I'll arrange for a car to take you there.'

'Thank you. I just hope this doesn't turn out to be a wild goose chase.'

'I think you misjudge yourself, Agent Scully,' Lafayette said gravely. 'I think your instincts in this matter are good. MacLeod certainly knows more than he has told us.'

Scully nodded. 'If I find out anything, I'll let you know.'

'We'll get your partner back, Agent Scully. I promise you that.'

She nodded again, and turned to leave.

The barge was bigger than Scully had expected. Not the narrow, brightly painted canal barge that she had half been expecting but a dark hulk that probably had more room inside than Mulder's apartment. Not that that was anything to write home about.

She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, then as she turned to go saw a lone jogger approaching along the quayside.

She raised a hand against the glare of the sun as he slowed. *He is a big man. Very handsome.* Lafayette had said. He hadn't been kidding. Scully's first, rather stunned thought was that Duncan MacLeod was too good-looking to be true. Even in his sweats he was the poster boy for guys who appeared on the covers of Harlequin romances. Chiselled of jaw, firm of muscle, dark and smouldering of gaze, sweaty and tousled from his run - oh boy, this one was easy on the eye all right. An aura of pure animal magnetism hung around him like the scent of cheap after shave. Scully swallowed and gave herself a brisk mental slap. *Concentrate, Scully!* Just because the guys she usually met in the course of her work were of a general quality that had made psychotic tattoo boy seem like a pretty good bet didn't mean she had to lose it for the first Fabio lookalike who turned up. Even if he did actually look like Fabio's more attractive, slightly older brother.

'Can I help you?' the jogger asked. He moved up the gangplank with the confidence of ownership. The accent was something between Scottish and American. The voice the words were spoken in was low and husky.

Scully swallowed. *Down girl,* she thought to herself.

'I'm Special Agent Dana Scully.' she said curtly. 'I'm an FBI agent attached to the Surete. I'm looking for a man called Duncan MacLeod.

'I'm Duncan MacLeod. What can I do for you, Agent Scully?'

'Mr MacLeod, I'm looking for an associate of yours. A man called Adam Pierson.'

Duncan had turned away from her to unlock the door of the barge. Now she saw the broad shoulders in front of her tense, but Duncan's voice remained polite and unconcerned.

'I'm sorry, Agent Scully. He isn't here. Have you tried his apartment?'

'Mr MacLeod...'

'Duncan. Please.'

The smile he gave her as he turned back towards her was warm and friendly. And he had nice eyes, Scully noticed. Big and brown and trusting. Scully gave herself another mental slap. *Repeat after me* she thought to herself. *This guy has been a suspect in not one, not two, but six separate murders and disappearances. In Paris alone. That the Surete knows about. He has a police file a foot thick. You are not going to start calling him Duncan.* She injected a stern note into her voice.

'Mr MacLeod, a man matching Adam Pierson's description was seen here earlier today.'

That was a fact the Surete had discovered early on. There were always fishermen along this section of the Seine with little to do other than watch the world go by.

'I didn't say that he wasn't here earlier.' Duncan said mildly. 'He came by at lunchtime. Would you like to come in, Agent Scully? I'm going to put some coffee on.'

Scully followed him down the steps into the barge. In terms of taste, it was the opposite of Mulder's apartment. The barge was gracefully and elegantly furnished. There was no TV visible, but there was a very stately bed. Vaguely Scully remembered that this MacLeod had once been an antique dealer. Obviously he'd been a successful one. The few pieces she could recognise all looked extremely valuable. She realised that she was staring and pulled herself together.

'Please, have a seat. I'll just be a minute,' Duncan said from the kitchen area. Scully heard the sound of fresh coffee beans being ground and sighed. She added 'knows how to make real coffee' to her mental Duncan MacLeod checklist, right after 'fabulous apartment'.

'Mr MacLeod, I can't impress upon you strongly enough how vital it is that I get in touch with Adam Pierson. It could be a matter of life and death.'

That got a reaction. The big brown eyes grew concerned.

*Sensitive and caring* Scully thought. She gave herself a mental kick - the slapping didn't seem to be doing much good. *You're only here because this man may have information about your partner. Remember him?*

'Agent Scully, has something happened?' Duncan was asking. 'Is Adam in danger?'

Scully nodded. 'Yes. I think both he and my partner are in a great deal of danger.'

There was sudden comprehension in Duncan's expression. 'You're Mulder's partner. What happened?'

'Mulder was snatched from the street outside the Prefecture a couple of hours ago. He was drugged and bundled into a car. We think it's your friend they're really after.'

'Why?'

'Dr Pierson's apartment and office were both been broken into before Mulder was taken. We think when they couldn't find him they decided to take Mulder instead, to use as a bargaining counter. They'll probably ask Pierson to give himself up in exchange for Mulder.'

'Do you know who 'they' are?'

'No. We don't know who's behind this. So far they haven't contacted us. We have almost nothing to go on, Mr MacLeod, and we're getting desperate. You said he was here this morning?'

'At around lunchtime, yes.'

'Did he tell you anything?'

'Just that he'd run into Mulder again. He said he thought someone had been following him, but that he'd lost them.'

'Did he know who?'

'No. He didn't have any idea. He was pretty sure it was linked back to the time he spent in Maine but he didn't give me any details.'

Scully narrowed her eyes. Her instincts told her that MacLeod was not exactly lying to her, just not telling her the whole truth. She had the feeling that he'd tell her what was going on if only she asked the right questions. Unfortunately, she had no idea what the right questions were.

'Were you there at the time?' she tried.

'In Maine? No. I only met Adam a year or two ago.'

'Are you close friends?'

'Yes, I suppose we are.'

'Does he confide in you?'

The answer to that was a snort. An attractive snort, but a snort nonetheless. Obviously not.

'Adam doesn't confide in anyone if he can help it, Agent Scully,' Duncan said. There was something behind the words. An edge of bitterness, Scully thought, and wondered what the story behind it was.

'Does Dr Pierson have any enemies that you know of?'

A pause. 'He didn't mention anyone specific. As I said, he didn't have any idea who was following him.'

'Or why, Mr MacLeod?'

'Agent Scully...'

He was interrupted by a tap on the barge door, which was pushed open.

'Mac? Mac, you in there?'

Scully stood slowly. The newcomer was a fatherly man who walked with the aid of a cane. He seemed world-worn but friendly. An amputee, Scully realised from the way he limped down the stairs.

'Mac, I know you said to stay at the bar but Adam hasn't turned up. I think something's wrong...'

He saw Scully and trailed to a halt.

Duncan sighed and made the introductions.

'Joe, this is Agent Scully. She's Agent Mulder's partner. Agent Scully, this is Joe Dawson. An old friend. Joe, Mulder was kidnapped a couple of hours ago. Agent Scully would very much like to know where Adam is.'

The man called Joe Dawson shrugged.

'I'm sorry, Agent Scully. Like I said, he was supposed to meet me but he didn't turn up.'

'I've already told Agent Scully that Adam thought he was followed this morning,' MacLeod said. Giving Dawson a lead on how much she knew, Scully thought, but there wasn't a lot she could do about it apart from arresting them both and interviewing them separately.

'Why did he arrange to meet you, Mr Dawson?' she tried. 'If he was running for his life I'm sure it wasn't just for a social drink.'

The two men glanced at each other.

'All right, Agent Scully,' Joe said reluctantly. 'I was going to try to get him some information about Drake's murder. I've got some contacts in the Surete.'

'Adam thought that the people who'd killed Drake were responsible for following him this morning,' Duncan added.

'And he really doesn't know who or why?'

'He doesn't know who, and if he knows why he didn't tell us,' Joe said. 'He thought whoever was doing these killings was after him. He was worried your partner had led them straight to him.'

'Which is why he disappeared.'

'He gets a little overcautious sometimes,' Joe said.

'But he was fond of your partner, Agent Scully,' Duncan said quickly. 'He didn't want him involved. He didn't want him to get hurt.'

'The alternative theory, of course, is that he carried out these killings and he's getting out while he can,' Scully argued. 'There's no proof that he didn't arrange to kidnap Mulder himself.'

'Except that he wouldn't have needed to grab Agent Mulder from the open street when the guy was actually on the way back to his office,' Joe said reasonably. 'Your partner trusted him enough to get into a car with him.'

'Agent Scully, Adam Pierson didn't kill Drake or the woman in San Francisco,' Duncan said with finality.

'I suppose the three of you had an all night poker game going on those dates,' Scully said wearily.

'I'm going to take a lot more convincing than your word alone, Mr MacLeod.'

Joe nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything less. 'Adam was in America when Drake was killed. He used to belong to a historical foundation I work for. He still does a bit freelance work for us from time to time. I can find you some numbers at the museum in New York if you want to check it out.'

Scully nodded. 'We will check it out.' She pulled the CCTV stills from her bag. 'Do either of you recognise the people in these pictures?'

'I don't know either of them,' Duncan said. 'What about the car?'

'Stolen and dumped a few streets away.'

Joe took the pictures from him, looked at them and shook his head. 'This doesn't ring any bells with me. Can I take this, Agent Scully? I'll do some askin' around.'

'I'd appreciate it, Mr Dawson.'

'Is there anything else we can help you with, Agent Scully?' Duncan asked. It was clearly a dismissal. Scully narrowed her eyes.

'Yes,' she said coldly. 'I want to know the truth. I want to know what's really going on, but I'll settle for knowing where my partner's been taken and where Adam Pierson is. I don't care about your cult or whatever it is you do. As far as I'm concerned you can hack each other to pieces. That's the Surete's problem. I just want my partner back.'

'And if he's killed?' Duncan asked.

Scully fixed him with a calm, cold look.

'If he's killed I'm going to make it my life's work to hunt every one of you sons of bitches down, Mr MacLeod.'

'Agent Scully...' MacLeod began.

'We'll find out what we can.' Joe interrupted. Scully was surprised at the sudden authority in his voice. 'We'll do what we can to help you. Both of us. I can't guarantee anything but we'll try to find out where your partner is. All we ask it that you keep our names out of it.'

Scully nodded. 'Thank you, Mr Dawson. Here's my card. The number of my cell is on the back, or you can reach me at this extension at the Surete.' She scribbled Lafayette's number on the back.

'If we find anything out, we'll contact you.' Joe said.

MacLeod showed her out.

'You're a loyal friend, Agent Scully.'

'I'll wait to hear from you, Mr MacLeod.'

Lafayette was waiting outside the barge - the car that had dropped her off had gone. He nodded briefly to MacLeod as he held the car door open for Scully.

'Were you successful, Agent Scully?'

'Not really. If they find out anything, they'll let us know. Why didn't you come in?'

'Your presence here is less official than mine, Agent Scully. I thought that MacLeod might be more willing to give you information. Besides, Mr MacLeod is a chivalrous man. Forgive me, but I thought that he might respond better to... how do you say it...'

'A damsel in distress?' Scully said, rather coldly.

Lafayette had the grace to look embarrassed. 'It is no reflection on you, Agent Scully. Only on MacLeod. He is very old fashioned in that respect. I thought that this would be the best way of ensuring his co-operation.'

Scully nodded resignedly. 'And we need all the help we can get.'

They had turned back onto the street and were returning, in silence, to the prefecture when

Scully's cellphone trilled. She sighed and reached into her coat. She flipped the mouthpiece open and pushed the receive button. 'Scully.'

The ringing continued.

'It's Mulder's,' Lafayette said, tension in his voice. He pulled the car swiftly into the side of the road, causing a chorus of outraged horns behind them. 'Answer it.'

She found the second cellphone in her coat and did so. 'Scully here.'

'Agent Scully?' spoken with surprise and hesitation, an English accent. She had heard the voice before, although in considerably more muffled circumstances. 'You're Mulder's partner. I need to speak with him. Is he there?'

'Are you Adam Pierson?' Scully asked, her heart in her throat.

'Yes,' slowly. 'Is something wrong?'

'Mulder's been kidnapped, Dr Pierson. I have to see you.'

'Kidnapped? What happened?' The shock in his voice was genuine, Scully would have sworn.

'He left the prefecture to come to your office. He was drugged and pulled into a car a few streets away. We found the car abandoned and no trace of Mulder. That was three hours ago. Where are you?'

'Have there been any ransom demands? Has there been any contact at all?'

'No. Nothing yet. Where are you?'

'I had to leave Paris. I was supposed to meet Mulder tonight. I was calling him to cancel.'

'Can you get back here?'

There was a moment's hesitation on the other end of the line. Scully knew instinctively that if she lost this call, she would have lost Adam Pierson for good.

She pressed. 'Dr Pierson, one of the people who died in America was tortured and then beheaded with a chainsaw. If we want Mulder back alive and in one piece we're going to have to work together. I need your help.'

'Wait. *One* of the people who died in America? I only heard about Naomi Redburg.'

'Another body was found today. His name was Jacques Lemarchand. Do you recognise the name?'

Another silence. Then: 'Yeah. I knew him. I thought he... no, never mind.'

'Dr Pierson, so far three people have died that we know of. Now they have Mulder and you're probably next on the list. You need our help as much as we need yours.'

'So you're offering me protection?'

'We both know that the only protection you're going to get is when these people are either behind bars or dead.'

'And if I don't co-operate?'

'Then by tomorrow morning, you'll probably be in Switzerland or wherever it is you're heading and Mulder will probably have been killed.'

To Adam Pierson's credit, Scully thought, he didn't hesitate then.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Meet us at your apartment. If they try to contact you anywhere it'll be there.'

'It's going to take me about an hour and a half to get there.'

'Where are you?'

'About halfway to Orleans.'

Scully forbore to comment.

'We'll wait for you at your apartment.'

'I'll be there.'

Adam cut off the call, and swore softly to himself. He was parked in the car park of an anonymous motorway service station. A car that had followed him a little too closely and for a little too long on the autoroute had led to a change in his plans. He hadn't bothered to stop for lunch in Paris, or to meet Joe. Instead he'd followed his instincts and put the maximum possible distance between himself and that ancient city. Two hours or so away, after a circuitous journey that had involved switching from back roads to the motorway several times, he had finally decided that his pursuer, real or imagined, was no longer behind him. That being established he had stopped to buy a dry, overpriced sandwich and drink possibly the worst cup of coffee it was possible to get in France outside a MacDonalds. The call to Mulder had been an afterthought, but he didn't waste energy on wishing he hadn't made it. Instead he dialled another, familiar number.

'MacLeod here.'

'Mac?'

'Methos. Thank God. You need to come back to Paris. Mulder's partner was here.'

'She came to the barge?'

'With a Surete escort.'

'Shit.'

'They said Mulder had been kidnapped.'

'I know. I just spoke to Agent Scully. I'm on my way back now. I was just hoping they hadn't got you and Joe involved too.'

'Under suspicion, but not involved. Not yet, anyway. They know too much to be comfortable, Methos.'

'Yeah. I was afraid of that.'

'So what happens now?'

'Mac, I'm going to need your help on this one.'

'What do you want me to do?' Duncan said, without hesitation. He barely heard Adam's relieved sigh. 'You thought I was going to say no?' he asked incredulously.

'No. Not really. Thanks.'

'What's the plan?'

'It's time for Adam Pierson to make a spectacular and public exit.'

'You're going to fake your death and get out of Paris? You know, most people would say "I told you so" at about this point.'

'Cute, MacLeod. It's going to be a little more complicated than that. We have to get Mulder out alive, get the FBI and the Surete off our backs and work out who's behind all this.'

'Anything else?'

'Yeah. I'm going to have to hand myself in. You're going to have to kill me while I'm under police protection and get my body out before I revive.'

'That's going to be almost impossible,' MacLeod said. 'The Surete has a file on me a foot thick and Scully and Lafayette both know what I look like. And believe me, Scully's not going to let you out of her sight if she thinks you're the only way she's going to get her partner back. Can't we handle this ourselves?'

'I've got to work with them on this one. There's no choice. They know my name and they can get a photograph from my personnel file at the university. If I try to work this on my own every police officer in Paris is going to be looking out for me.'

'This is a mess, Methos.'

'Yeah. Tell me about it.'

Duncan sighed. 'So what's the plan?'

'Is Joe there?'

'Yes. I'll put the speaker phone on.'

'Joe?'

'Here, Adam.'

'Joe, have you got anyone working in the prefecture at the moment?'

'Course. What do you want?'

'I want both of you to listen. Here's what I need you to do...'

Adam's flight had left him with a drive of at least an hour and a half straight back into Paris. Time enough for Scully and Lafayette to return to the prefecture, check for any progress in the investigation of Mulder's kidnap (there was none), eat a hurried meal at the police canteen and arrive at Adam's apartment well before he was due to get there. The apartment building was a tall block in a quiet neighbourhood. Expensive, Scully thought, or it would have been in Washington or New York. She said as much to Lafayette as they waited in the long, bare entrance hall for the concierge. Lafayette nodded in agreement.

'As an Inspector of police I earn more than 400,000 francs a year, but I could barely afford a flat in this apartment building. A graduate student would earn perhaps half as much as I do. On that salary alone, I do not understand how Adam Pierson could afford to live here.'

The building's concierge was an short, elderly woman, dressed in black with an enormous glass brooch pinned to the front of her dress. Her pure white hair was plaited into an ornate bun that suggested that loose, it would fall almost to her waist. She regarded both Lafayette and Scully with deep suspicion, despite their police credentials, and showed them up to Adam's apartment with great reluctance. There she stood scowling in the doorway, apparently determined not to trust them alone there.

The apartment was, to say the least, eclectic. The furnishings were ancient and modern, western, oriental and African. Scully noticed a graceful piece of glassware that she would have said was Roman if not for its perfect condition. An ancient bible bound in flaking leather was shoved carelessly into a bookshelf underneath what looked like a first edition of the Pickwick Papers and a paperback of 'Armadillos and Old Lace' by Kinky Friedman. Lafayette blinked and moved to examine a small picture half hidden behind a bookshelf.

'Agent Scully, if it were possible I would say that this was an original Caravaggio.'

'Are you sure it's not a copy?'

If it is, then it's contemporary.'

'Dr Pierson seems to be doing very well for himself,' Scully noted softly. 'Does he have any connections with drug or organised crime.'

Lafayette shook his head. 'Nothing like that at all. As far as we know, he is a perfectly innocent civilian. Besides, I do not see MacLeod becoming friends with a drug dealer. But smuggling antiquities is also a profitable business and MacLeod was an antique dealer once.'

Scully turned back to the concierge, who was watching them both with some disapproval.

'Madame, who owns Dr Pierson's flat?'

'The flat belongs to the owner of the apartment building, Madame,' the concierge said stiffly. 'An American called John Ruth-Johnson.'

'And Dr Pierson rents it from him? How can he afford it, Madame?'

For a moment the woman seemed caught between close mouthed caution and the desire to gossip. Seeing the Lafayette was still bent over the picture, she leaned closer to Scully.

'Mr Ruth-Johnson interviewed me for the position of concierge himself, mademoiselle. It was in 1947. I was a war widow with two young children to care for. Mr Ruth-Johnson was very kind to me then. He was a very charming man.'

Scully raised an eyebrow. 'I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Madame.'

The concierge lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

'Ah, Mademoiselle, when I look at young Doctor Pierson I see in his face the face of my employer. They do not share the same name but in some ways they are very alike.' She tapped the side of her nose tellingly. 'Perhaps later, in England, there was another lady to whom Mr Ruth-Johnson was also very charming.'

Scully gave a silent 'oh' of comprehension. Encouraged, the concierge leant in closer, enveloping Scully in a sickly cloud of lily of the valley. She confided in a hoarse whisper, 'The flat is Mr Ruth-Johnson's own, but he has not been to Paris for many years. Instead, he permits Dr Pierson to live here in his stead. To pay only the bills and not the rent. A suggestive arrangement, I think. Maybe one day this building will belong to Dr Pierson.' She spread her hands in expressive resignation. 'So I put up with the visitors hammering on the door late at night, the students with holes in the knees of their jeans, the strange noises, the boxes of books being carried *up* and *down* the stairs, the endless beer bottles...'

'Does Dr Pierson have any special friends?' Lafayette interrupted, turning away from the painting with some reluctance.

'A woman with dark hair comes here sometimes. I think they are friends but not lovers. Sometimes her boyfriend is here too - a big dark man who looks like a gangster.' She raised a hand unconsciously to her hair. Apparently MacLeod had that effect on a lot of people. 'There are some friends from the university from time to time. A man who walks with a stick, quite often. Last night there was an American in a good suit. I have not seen him before but he stayed until late this morning.'

'But you didn't see whoever burgled the apartment earlier?'

The shrug again. 'He did not come in past my office. I have already told your policeman that. And how long will he be waiting in my office, may I ask?'

'Madame, I can only apologise for the inconvenience,' Lafayette said, 'But I'm afraid that it will necessary for a little while longer...'

He paused. All three turned as they heard hurried footsteps behind them.

Scully looked around to see the man from Mulder's flyer standing in the doorway. Tall and slender with ruffled, untidy dark hair, dressed in jeans and a shapeless black sweater, he had an worried, uncertain look that made him seem both earnest and very young. There was no way, Scully decided, that this man could possibly be almost forty years old. There was no way that he was a drug dealer, or a smuggler of rare antiquities. There was no way that he could have done anything that would have merited an assassin being sent to hunt him down. Possibly, just possibly, he might have been fined for taking his library books back late or been given a parking ticket. This looked like another dead end. Scully sighed.

'Dr Pierson?' she asked.

'Dr Pierson!' the concierge said sharply. 'I must speak to you at once.'

Adam let out an irritated breath.

'Madame, forgive me, but I'm very busy.'

'Dr Pierson, I demand to know what is going on! First a burglary, now the detectives here to question you! I run a respectable building.'

'Maria, the police are here about the burglary,' Adam said placatingly. 'It's nothing to worry about.'

'Then why were there so many? Why did they search your mailbox? Why do they answer your telephone?'

Adam took her hand gently and patted it reassuringly and in a manner that spoke of long experience.

'Maria, I promise that I will sort all this out.'

'Please do so, Dr Pierson! I run a respectable building!'

'Maria, forgive me, but I must go and talk to these people.'

'See that this is sorted out, Dr Pierson. Now, here is your package. Tell your friends that I am not your private facteur, monsieur le docteur!'

Lafayette let out a weary breath. 'Madame, why didn't you tell us about the package?' he asked.

Maria gave him a withering stare. 'It was not addressed to you, monsieur. The lady who delivered it said to give it only to Dr Pierson. She said that it was important.'

Adam sighed. 'Thank you. 'Don't worry, Maria. It doesn't matter.'

Lafayette took out the CCTV photograph. 'Was this the woman you saw?'

'Yes. Yes, that was her. Certainment.'

Lafayette passed the picture to Adam, who looked at it and shrugged. 'Never seen her before. I think the man was the one who was following me earlier.'

'It is a start.' Lafayette said, with resignation. He turned to Maria. 'Merci, Madame. If we need anything more, we will send for you. Now you must give your statement to the officer downstairs.'

They waited until she had left before Adam carefully laid the little package on the desk. It was

small and square and heavily padded. For a moment, they looked at it in silence.

'I take it there's been no news,' Adam said at last.

'No. This is the only lead we have,' Lafayette said.

'Open it,' Scully said. All three of them knew what could be in it. *Please don't let them have hurt him* she prayed silently.

'We should check for fingerprints,' Lafayette said.

'There aren't going to be any fingerprints,' Adam said tightly. 'Whoever did this was a professional.'

Lafayette grimly pulled on a pair of latex gloves. 'Even professionals make mistakes.' He took Adam's offered Swiss army knife, wiped the blade and slit the side of the parcel open gently, then eased out the contents.

'It's his ID,' Scully said, letting out a breath. 'Just his ID.'

'And a telephone number,' Adam said, flipping the ID open. A yellow post-it note had been stuck inside. 'Is it worth tracking down who the telephone belongs to?'

'For a mobile? Probably not. We will do it, and we will find that it was given away free with tokens from breakfast cereal and registered in a false name. He will probably use it for this one call, then throw it into the Seine.'

'But you'll be able to trace the location?'

'Perhaps. If we do we will find that the call was received in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, or in the concourse of the Gare du Nord.'

'Do you want me to make the call from here?'

'The equipment we need is back at the prefecture.'

'Then let's go.' Adam said in a voice that was suddenly soft and deadly. His eyes narrowed and something ruthless glittered in them, something that made Scully suddenly glad she was not their focus. She revised her opinion of him with a shudder. A dangerous man, after all.

It took twenty minutes to return through the evening rush hour to the prefecture. The communications department had already been notified that they would be needed, and a technician was ready with the equipment they needed when they arrived.

Are you ready to make the call, Dr Pierson?' Lafayette asked.

Adam nodded, took the phone from the technician, took a breath and dialled the number.

'This is Adam Pierson.'

'Good evening, Mr Pierson.' A man's voice, cool, calm and British. 'I expected you to call before now. I was growing quite concerned.'

'Where's Mulder?'

'I'm afraid Agent Mulder can't come to the phone right now. But be assured, for now at least he's alive and well.'

'I want to speak to him.'

'Regrettably that's not possible. Do you know Paris well, Mr Pierson?'

'Yes.'

'Then come to the Marina St Denys ten o'clock tonight. I need hardly remind you to come alone and unarmed.'

'What's your name? Who are you?'

But the call had been cut off. Adam looked up at Scully and Lafayette. Lafayette shook his head slowly.

The technician spread his hands in rueful apology.

'Not enough time to track it,' Scully said.

'A professional,' Adam said, eyes narrowed in thought. 'Do you know the Marina St Denys?'

'Not well.' Lafayette said. 'Not yet. But we will.'

The briefing room was somewhere in the depths of one of the Surete's operational stations. The only decorations were notice boards, most adorned with grainy, laser printed mugshots of the area's habitual criminals, faces either young and insolent or old and hard. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

Adam was introduced to the members of firearms unit who would be running this operation and was greeted with polite nods and expressionless gazes by the black-clad, patient men sitting around the heavy wooden table in the centre of the room. Armour had changed a lot, Adam thought to himself, since the crude, heavy shells of leather and metal he had once worn. Nylon, plastic, ceramic, kevlar - light to wear, always black. There were no weapons, not yet. Maps were spread across the scarred, coffee stained surface - of the area, a plan of the dock itself. Scully was the only woman in the room, but she was treated with no less respect by the others for all that. No. Not respect. Acceptance. She carried herself confidently, as if she'd done this many times before, with no sign of nervousness. From what Mulder had told him of his chequered career this probably wasn't the first time she'd had to come to the rescue. These men saw Scully as one of themselves. He was the outsider, the civilian, the one who had to be babied through this, the one who was probably going to screw the whole thing up.

He gave no sign that he spoke French and maintained an expression of faint boredom as the briefing was given. Lafayette finished the briefing and then turned to him, explaining what would happen. There would be a meeting. An exchange. Himself for Mulder. He'd go into the marina car park and ask to see Mulder. That's when the snipers would get the best shot. There was a lot that could go wrong. He should not feel obligated to do this.

'I'm obligated,' Adam said shortly. 'I have to do this.'

'Why do they want you?' Scully asked. It was a subject he had been hoping to avoid.

'When I was much younger, I had some... family problems,' Adam said. In a way, it was the truth, although he knew they would read a different meaning into it than Mulder. Mulder had assumed he meant this strange, duelling cult he'd theorised about to Scully. These men would assume organised crime. Ambiguities like that were useful, sometimes. Scully looked sceptical and Lafayette's face betrayed nothing. 'I tried to get out of the game and make a fresh start.' Adam said. 'I guess I've been tracked down.'

'You're telling us this is about organised crime?' Scully said in disbelief.

'Like I said, I've been out of the game for a long while now,' Adam said. It was a phrase that answered nothing, said in a tone that discouraged further questions.

'We'll discuss it further when this operation is complete.' Lafayette said. 'Right now, Agent Mulder's release is all that's important.

The cluster of unmarked police vehicles, his own car, the big white van that would act as the communications centre for the operation, all drove separately to the rendezvous point - a dark, deserted warehouse yard on the other side of the main road from the marina. There the final preparations were carried out.

The bullet proof vest they gave him was an exercise in pointlessness, but he strapped it on anyway. The actual act of being shot hardly worried him, but being shot and recovering in front of witnesses was more of a concern. He raised his arms patiently as he was fitted with a microphone, a transmitter, a tiny ear piece. His trenchcoat covered it all well. In the dark no-one would notice that he was wired for sound. His fingers itched to have his sword near, but that was impossible. His sword was with Joe, otherwise these people would have confiscated it in a breath. He only half-heard Lafayette's final instructions. He was to take his car, drive it down the long, potholed track to the boatyard, stop twenty metres from the gate, as far from the boathouse as he could. To keep the car between himself and the boathouse at all time. It was all obvious anyway and Lafayette had already been through it several times before. Now he just nodded absently, as he entered the state of battle readiness that came so easily after so many centuries. Eyes narrowed, adrenaline flowing, mind focused on what lay ahead, on the plan he had set into motion and the contingencies he had put into place should any part of it fail. Further plans lay at the back of his mind, still fluid, able to be adapted to any one of a hundred possible outcomes. But for now at least, the first plan was still the best.

'I'm ready to go now,' he said, when Lafayette had finally finished. Lafayette nodded.

'Good luck then, Dr Pierson.'

Somebody made final adjustments to the wiring underneath his sweater, then pulled the rough wool down and slapped him on the back.

'We have snipers covering the yard from three different positions.' Lafayette said. 'We'll be watching on the monitors and I'll be in radio contact with you all the way through. We'll try to establish whether he's alone first, so keep him talking for as long as you can. If you can get him out into the open and away from Mulder so much the better. That'll give us a clear shot.'

The drive to the marina was only a few hundred yards but it seemed to Adam like one of the longest he had ever made. The one thing that could really screw this up was if another immortal was waiting for him at the other end with the assassin, but as he drove along the rutted track he felt no buzz. He pulled his Volvo into the yard of the marina, a pitted concrete clearing surrounded on three sides by high fences, topped with barbed wire and stacked with sheet metal and marine junk. The doors of a metal warehouse stood open darkly at one end of the yard. On the fourth side of the yard the waters of the Seine moved darkly and silently past. A long concrete dock ran along the side of the warehouse, and Adam could hear the distant, ghostly noise of sail cleats rattling against hollow aluminium masts. A light shone brilliantly down from just above the warehouse door, intended to dazzle him, he imagined, and to put whoever was in the warehouse at an advantage. He breathed deeply, then again.

'Get out of the car,' Lafayette's fuzzy voice came through the ear piece. 'Through the passenger door. Keep the car between you and the warehouse. Get ready to duck down on my word.'

Adam did as he directed. His skin crawled. He hadn't sensed an immortal yet but there were a lot of places for someone to hide in the deep shadows cast by the light. He hoped the marksmen he knew were out there somewhere had a good enough shot. One marksman in particular, of course.

'I want you to call out and tell him you're here,' Lafayette said. 'Ask to see Mulder.'

'I'm here,' Adam said. 'Where's Mulder?' He barely made out a figure standing in the door of the warehouse, holding a gun.

'He's safe,' the man said.

'I want to see him. I want to see him drive away from here. Then I'll do whatever you want.'

'You don't have much of a choice, Mr Pierson,' the man said, with some amusement.

'If you don't, you can have all the fun of trying to find me in that river,' Adam snapped back. 'I'm a strong enough swimmer to make that a real problem.'

'If you jump into that river, then I'll kill him,' the man said without emotion. Of course this location had been chosen against the assassin's protests, Adam thought. It wasn't one he would personally have chosen, he had to admit. Maybe the escape route was going to be by water. Seemed likely.

Lafayette said 'Ask to see Mulder again. Keep asking.'

'As far as I know, Mulder's already dead,' Adam said. 'Show him to me.'

The man sighed, and pulled a remote out of his pocket. He pushed one or two of the buttons and the floodlight dimmed a little, while the lights in the warehouse came on, very low. Adam strained to see a shadowy figure on the floor beside the man. Mulder, apparently alive but unconscious. The man's gun was pointed loosely at his head.

'I want him to drive out of here,' Adam said again. 'He's nothing to do with this.'

'You're not in any position to make demands, Mr Pierson.'

'I think I am. You know I'm good enough to lose you again. If I get away you're never going to be able to find me.'

'If you get away, then I will be forced to approach some of your friends here for information.' the man said. He glanced down at Mulder, who had stirred slightly. 'Some of your close friends. Mr Dawson does not strike me as being a particularly robust man. He has already suffered a great deal in his life. Don't force me to add to that suffering.'

Adam felt a cold fury filling him, the quiet grad student persona and two thousand years of civilisation vanishing like ice on the surface of the sun.

He said softly, but with terrible anger; 'If you so much as touch him, I will hunt you down and kill you.' The words hung in the air with a dreadful intensity - a statement of fact, not a threat.

He saw the assassin nod once approvingly, although his eyes grew wary and suddenly appraising.

'I'm told you used to be good at that, Dr Pierson,' he said conversationally. 'I'm told that once they called you 'Death'.'

'I'm sure you've been told a lot of things,' Adam said in a low voice.

In his ear Lafayette was hissing urgently 'Don't get him angry. Don't make threats. Stall him. Draw him out of the warehouse if you can. We can't get a clear shot with him in there.'

Adam took a deep breath, regaining a semblance of calm. The hollow, jangling whisper from the boats echoed softly around them in the breeze from the river. The sun had almost set. On the far distant skyline only the last dark streaks of red and orange showed against black cloud. He took another breath and forced a veneer of politeness into his words.

'So, Mr...'

'Mr Leigh will do as well as anything.'

'So who are you working for, Mr Leigh?'

'You'll find out who I'm working for soon enough.'

'Why do they want me?'

'They didn't tell me. Your past catching up with you, I assume. I imagined that you'd know who your enemies were.'

Adam shook his head. 'Not this time. I don't know who they are or why they killed Drake and the woman in San Francisco.' That last for Lafayette's benefit. 'Or was that you?'

'As I said, you'll find out soon enough.' Leigh said again. A fraction of a second's glance towards the river. He pointed the gun towards Mulder's head. Now, take off your coat, Mr Pierson.'

'Why?'

'I want to see that you're not armed.'

Adam shrugged, and did so, taking a few steps back from the car so the Leigh could see him, watching the other man for any sign of movement. The wiring and the bullet proof vest were both well hidden under his baggy sweater. He raised his arms slightly.

'I'm not wearing a gun. You know, you really should have brought someone else along on this.'

Was that a flicker of irritation?

'My employers want as few people as possible involved.'

'And what exactly makes you think they're going to let you live when this is over?'

'I'm touched by your concern for my welfare, Mr Pierson. Move into the light.'

'I don't think so.' Adam said shortly. 'Let Mulder go.'

'I don't think so, Mr Pierson.'

'So what happens now?' Adam asked. 'Unless Mulder's freed I'm not coming quietly. Let him go.'

'Mulder will regain consciousness very shortly.' Leigh said. 'He will be very groggy and unable to defend himself, but he should be capable of driving to safety. He will enter your car, and you will take his place here inside the warehouse. When I have you he'll be free to drive away.' The gun shifted slightly in his hand. The gaze that met Adam was clear and cool

*He's lying* Adam realised. The gun looked wrong - it was being held too far in the shadows. It was too big, too unwieldy. Some kind of tranq gun. Leigh was waiting for him to come out from behind the car, that was all, so he could get his shot. If he shot Mulder with it it would probably do no more than put him out for a couple more hours. Of course, that assumed he didn't have a real gun to hand as well.

'Mr Pierson, this is what I want you to do. Come around and open the driver's door of the car.'

Adam thought: *He knows I'm probably wearing a vest. If he gets a shot, he'll shoot me in the leg or the neck.*

Lafayette was saying 'Stay behind the car, Mr Pierson. We don't know that he isn't just going to

shoot you as soon as you move out. Stall him.'

He chose to ignore Lafayette's advice. Now was the time. He didn't want to wait for whoever was out on the river to decide to join the fun and get into position for a shot at him. He made a little feint towards the river, then lunged towards the shadows cast by the piles of scrap around the edges of the yard. The river would have been better, safer, anyway, but then there wouldn't have been any reason for Leigh to leave Mulder to come and make sure of him.

Leigh had been unprepared - he had been given no warning at all - but he was fast nonetheless. The gun fired, and even at the range, even with a fast moving target, even with a non-standard handgun, the dart came entirely too close. Adam would find it later, tangled in the wool of his sweater. But it had missed him, although Leigh had no way of knowing that he hadn't been hit. He gave a little groan, moved clumsily against the piles of scrap metal, causing some of it to fall, then let himself collapse to the ground. Leigh moved forward slowly, coming out of the warehouse like a cat, cautiously approaching the fallen body in the shadows.

In his ear he heard Lafayette shouting an order in French.

There were three or four sharp cracks. From his awkward, sprawled position in the shadows Adam heard rather than saw Leigh fall.

The black vans had seemingly appeared from nowhere, but they had to have been waiting somewhere very nearby. As he ran to Mulder he heard them roar down the narrow lane, then halt, spilling men into the yard, turning it into a place illuminated with flashing blue lights, filled with the crackle and buzz of radios. Mulder was alive - drugged, unconscious, but alive. For a moment, Adam let himself gently stroke the soft tousled hair. Mulder looked as he had when he had fallen asleep after they had made love - young and utterly vulnerable.

He murmured 'I'm truly sorry, kid,' then straightened and moved away as the paramedics took over. Past them he saw other black-clad firearms officers move past into the warehouse, their guns at the ready. A little way away Leigh, or whatever he'd said his name was, was lying in a dark, slowly spreading pool of blood, unconscious. At least one of the bullets had hit his head. It didn't look as if he was going to survive. Adam sighed. It would have been nice to know what all this had been about. He watched sadly as Mulder was stretchered away, then followed slowly towards the ambulance, pulling off the sweater then the vest, standing as much in the light as he could. *Come on Duncan.* he thought. *Let's get this over with. Head or heart. You've got a clear shot.* He wondered for a moment whether something had gone wrong. Maybe Joe's source at the Prefecture hadn't managed to get the location of the hostage exchange. Maybe Duncan hadn't found a vantage point to shoot from. Then he dismissed the thoughts. No point in buying more trouble than he already had. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that his friends were more than competent. If by some chance things had gone wrong, he'd just make another plan.

'Mr Pierson, keep your vest on,' Lafayette called from where he bent over Leigh's body, interrupting his thoughts. 'We don't know that he's alone here.'

Adam called back, 'It's too uncomfortable. I'm taking it off.' He threw the vest onto the top of the Volvo and pulled the sweater back on. He was still festooned with wiring but it would take time he didn't have to get untangled from that. Now where the hell had Duncan got to?

'Get back in the van until we've secured the warehouse.' Lafayette ordered. 'It's not safe here yet.'

'Can I see him first?' Adam gestured towards Mulder. He recognised Scully bent over him by the red hair that escaped from the helmet and the slightness of her build. He saw Mulder shift slightly, raising a hand, his eyes flickering open, trying to focus. Far behind and above them something metallic glinted from the roof of a distant industrial unit about three quarters of a kilometre away. He turned to give Duncan the best target.

'Mr Pierson, get into the van now, or I'll have someone escort you there.' Lafayette made a move towards him, irritation written across his handsome face.

*Goodbye Mulder,* Adam thought sadly. *I'm sorry* From somewhere there was a distant *crack*. The bullet hit him in the exact centre of the forehead a fraction of a second later. He died before he could even think *nice shot*.

Somewhere in the darkness, unnoticed on the river Seine, a boat pulled up its anchor and drifted silently away downriver.

***

He revived in the darkness of a body bag, not for the first time, on the floor of a moving vehicle. The temptation to pull the zip open and free himself was overwhelming, but he forced himself to lie still. The buzz of an immortal's signature swelled over him, and he tensed as the van pulled in and stopped. The floor shifted underneath him as someone climbed into the back beside him. The zip was pulled abruptly back.

'Sacre bleu! Ee is alive!'

'Hah hah, Amanda. Very funny.'

'Well? What happened?'

'As far as I know it all went to plan,' Adam said. 'Things got kind of quiet after Duncan shot me but you know how that is. I thought you were there.' He pulled himself up into a sitting position, rubbing at a slowly fading bruise on his arm.

'No, I missed all the fun,' Amanda said. 'Wouldn't have done for me to scare anybody off. Are you about ready to go?'

'Yeah. Who he?' Adam gestured towards a second body bag lying alongside his on the floor.

'That's the late, mostly lamented Adam Pierson,' Amanda said. She dragged a heavy can of petrol out from under one of the seats and started wrestling with the top. 'It seems there was a little accident on the way back to the morgue.'

Adam clambered to his feet unsteadily. The headache from this one was going to last him the rest of the night.

'There was an accident?' he asked. Being shot through the head always slowed him a little on the uptake.

'There will be,' Amanda said gritting her teeth with effort, 'If I can ever get the lid off this petrol can.'

'So who is he really?' Adam asked. He pulled the zip on the body bag back a little, then made a face as the smell hit him.

'He was fished out of the Seine yesterday. John Doe number 147 this year, or he would have been if someone hadn't forgotten to book him into the morgue this afternoon.'

'I've noticed that people have these unexplained memory lapses when you're around, Amanda.'

Adam said. He took the can and winced as he tried and failed to twist the top off. Amanda gave him an *I told you so* look.

'I like to think it's my charm but I think the hundred thousand francs I gave the mortician probably clinched the deal. You know, with that and the van this is turning into quite an expensive operation.'

'Bill me,' Adam said, giving her a short, insincere smile. He gave the cap another wrench. This time it came loose. 'Did Duncan get away?'

Amanda gave him an exasperated look.

'Joe would have called if things had gone wrong. Relax, will you Methos? You're in the clear.'

'How about the kid?'

'Mulder? The FBI agent?'

'Yeah.' Adam heard the tension in his own voice. 'Did you hear anything? Is he OK?'

'Shock is all I heard.'

'He saw me get shot?'

'I think so.'

'Damn. I didn't want that to happen.'

'That little redhead was looking after him when I left.' Amanda gave him an arch little smile. 'So were you guys an item?'

'He's a nice guy. I liked him a lot.' Adam snapped. 'He doesn't get deserve to get hurt because of what I was. Of all the times these bastards could have picked to come after me...'

Amanda shrugged. 'Well I guess he's out of trouble now. Would you have told him?'

'Yeah. I was going to tonight. That was before all this blew up. No chance of that now.'

'You're really that serious about him, Methos?' Amanda asked, dark eyes suddenly wide.

'Yeah. What a screw-up.'

'You could find him,' Amanda said softly. 'Tell him anyway.'

Adam shook his head. 'At least this way I've only got myself to worry about. They won't waste their time on him if he thinks I'm dead. When this is over... I don't know. Maybe Joe was right. He's FBI. He takes his work very seriously.'

Amanda shrugged. 'Well, I hope he's worth it. In case you'd forgotten you're going to have to find yourself a whole new identity.'

'Yeah. Lucky I always have a couple of spares handy. I wanted to spend some more time in the States anyway. Have you got my sword?'

'Joe's bringing it along. He should be here any time now. Are you ready?'

'To sort out Adam Pierson here? Yeah.'

Amanda pulled the zip back and Adam frowned. 'Amanda, this guy's three inches shorter than me! He's forty-five if he's a day!'

'Yeah, well finding someone looking like you was always going to be a problem.' Amanda snapped. 'What do you think, you can just pick up the phone and order a stiff with a big nose and an attitude problem?'

'I do not have an attitude problem, Amanda,' Adam said coldly. 'I've just had a long night.'

'Well believe me, this guy was the closest they had.'

Adam sighed. 'We'd have been better off without a body at all.'

'What do you want me to do? Take him back and ask for a refund? Unless you want to heave him back into the river he's just going to have to do.'

'OK. Have you got a gun?'

'He's already dead, Methos.'

He gave her a weary look.

'Don't you think I'd better give him a gunshot wound, Amanda? It's going to look kind of suspicious if Adam Pierson here just heals up spontaneously.'

'You want three gunshot wounds,' Amanda said. 'Duncan got you a couple of times in the chest as well when you were on the ground. He didn't want you reviving too quickly.'

Adam looked down at himself. 'Great. This was a new sweater.'

'Maybe your new identify will have better taste in clothes,' Amanda said. She reached into her paramedic's coverall and pulled out a handgun, which she passed to Adam.

'You want to get that petrol out of here while I'm doing the honours?' Adam asked. 'I think three charred bodies would be overkill.'

Amanda opened the back of the van and jumped nimbly down, then pulled the petrol can out behind her. Three shots rang out as Joe's headlights drew up alongside her.

'Hey, Joe,' Amanda said. She smiled at him seductively as he drew alongside her.

'Where's Adam?' Joe asked.

'He thought our corpse could use some bullet holes.'

'A sidearm at point blank range isn't going to give the same kind of holes as a rifle at seven hundred yards, Amanda.'

'We're kind of hoping there's not going to be enough left for them to work that out. This guy's not much of a match.'

'You're going to blow the van up?'

'Only choice. It's not going to take much of a pathologist to work out that it's not Methos even without any records for comparison. We can't leave anything that could be identified.'

'Waste of a meat wagon,' Joe commented.

'I'll make a donation,' Amanda said, with a shrug.

Adam opened the van door. 'Where's the petrol?'

Amanda sighed. 'We'll be with you in a minute, Joe.'

'Better hurry. The plane isn't going to wait. Hey, Adam! Before you start...'

'Yeah?' Adam said, walking over.

'I bought you along some clean clothes. Better leave those with the stiff.'

'Good thinking, Joe. I *really* need these right now.'

'I'd better get started,' Amanda said, looking at the van with narrowed eyes.

'Be with you in a minute,' Adam said. He pulled the bloodstained sweater off with some relief.

Joe said tensely 'Adam, you're still wired up.'

'Relax, Joe. We're well out of range now. These things are designed to work over a couple of hundred yards, not three or four miles. Besides, it's switched off.'

'Still makes me edgy.'

Adam unhooked the harness the held the wiring in place and flipped the battery out of its housing in one easy movement.

'Better?'

'Yeah.'

'I'll dump it in the back with the rest of my gear. I didn't plan on it being a permanent fixture.'

'Are you guys going to spend the rest of the evening talking or are you going to come and give me a hand here?' Amanda called.

Adam sighed. 'Be back in a minute, Joe.'

'You seem kind of down,' Joe observed.

'It's been a shitty day.' Adam said, running a weary hand through his hair. 'I've blown my identity, my links with the watchers and one of the best relationships I've had in the last fifty years, plus someone's still after my head. If and when I get that sorted out, I've got to move to the States where the beer's lousy, I've got to start out on the student grad track all over again, it's going to

take me months to find a flat as good as the one I had in Paris and I still have a headache.'

'Sorry I asked,' Joe said. 'You goin' back to Seacouver?'

'It's as good a place as any and the university has a good reputation. I could do worse.'

Joe frowned. 'I don't get it. What is it about being a student? How long have you been doing this, anyway?'

Adam stretched tiredly. Joe watched in fascination as the little copper mushroom of a spent bullet was dislodged from somewhere in the recesses of his clothing, and hit the ground with a short, sharp 'tic'.

'Well if you don't count the library at Alexandria and a couple of years in Constantinople sometime in the third century AD, the first time was Bologna around 1099. I've still got all the certificates somewhere. Must be more than a hundred if you count the postgrad stuff.

'So what's the attraction? You have to live in cheap apartments, you're always broke...'

'Think about it, Joe. It's a very structured life but you can step out it of at a moment's notice if you have to. It's easy to move around and people don't notice you. Though that's not the main reason, of course.'

'No?' Joe said, with just a hint of sarcasm. 'Let me guess. The joys of learning?'

'The subsidised beer.'

'Jesus Christ.' Joe murmured in disgust. 'You'd think I'd know by now not to set myself up like that.'

'That reminds me. I meant to ask you...'

'No, Adam. I'm not going to start offering a student discount.'

Adam grinned. 'Hey c'mon, Joe. You were saying you wanted to get a younger crowd in.'

Joe snorted. 'Well I'm glad it's *my* welfare you have at heart.'

'And if you could see your way clear to backdating the discount to cover my tab...'

'Since you're never going to actually pay it anyway what difference is that going to make?'

'I'll pay it. Eventually.'

'Before I go bankrupt would be good. Anyway, if I wanted a younger crowd all I'd have to do is bar you. That'd drop the average age of the patrons by what.. twenty, thirty years?'

Adam raised his eyes to the heavens.

'Ok, forget I said that. What I was actually going to ask you was if you could use some extra help behind the bar.'

Joe's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

We're talkin' about you specifically here, right?'

'If I'm taking a medical degree I'll need all the extra cash I can get. I've got experience.'

'Yeah. I'll just bet you have.'

'I'm good at attracting students. I ran this place in Athens once. Had the whole of the Epicurean crowd as regulars. I'll tell you, those guys really knew how to party...'

'Hold on. You're going to med school?'

Adam gave him a worried look.

'I thought I just said that. Didn't I just say that?'

'So if I give you a job I'm stuck with you for the next five years?'

'I wouldn't have asked if I knew you felt like that about it,' Adam said, sounding mildly offended.

'I'll give you a week's trial. These are the ground rules. Mike's head barman so he decides whether you stay on or not. Any beer you drink, you pay for. You arrive a half hour before we open and you help clean up afterwards.'

'I know the drill, Joe. I've got about three hundred years experience at this.'

'I can't afford to pay you much.'

Adam shot him an exasperated look. 'If the answer's no, Joe, then just say so.'

'The answer is, I'll give you a week's trial and we'll see. And you pay your tab off before you start.' he added as an afterthought.

'This obsession you have with me paying my tab is kind of worrying, Joe.'

'Over the years I've learned to live with it.'

'Touche,' Adam said admiringly. 'You really are getting good at this, Joe.'

'Well just so long as I'm keepin' you entertained, buddy. Now I hate to rush you, but half the cops in Paris are going to be after us if we don't get a move on.'

'I'm on it. And Joe...?

'Yeah?'

'Thanks for everything you've done. I mean that.'

Joe nodded. 'No problem, buddy. Now you better get back to Amanda before she pulls a muscle or something. And move it, will you? We've got a plane to catch.'

***

Whatever Leigh had given Mulder to knock him out had left him weak and disoriented. Scully had insisted that he be hospitalised - kept in for observation at least overnight - and the paramedics had concurred. Now he was lying in a small, bleak hospital bedroom in an anonymous concrete block high above the some part of the city he didn't recognise. Outside the door he heard someone gruffly complaining about overtime and knew that Lafayette had posted a guard on the door. Whether it was to keep others out or to keep him in, he wasn't entirely certain. Nor, probably, was Lafayette.

But he couldn't feel anything. Emotionally he was numb, in shock. He knew should have been able to feel something, but all he could manage was a kind of weak anger. He tried to hold onto it - anything was better than the emptiness - but even the anger drifted away, and he was alone and empty again. His psychology training supplied the term 'post traumatic stress disorder', but the phrase was meaningless and after a while it slipped from his mind too. For a while he got out of bed, pulled the thin curtain back and stood by the window, looking out at the cold lights of Paris, a foreign city in a foreign land. The air that leaked in around the window frame was cold and damp, but he ignored it and watched the lights until one of the nurses came in and scolded him until he got back into bed. He picked up the remote for the TV on the other side of the room and flipped channels mindlessly. Scully's knock on the door came just after he'd watched three almost identical rap videos on MTV - a blur of shiny tracksuits and fireworks. Scully slipped into the room, and from the expression on her face, he knew he must have looked like shit. Old instincts made him try to put on a brave face for her. It didn't work.

'Hey, Scully.' Great. He sounded like shit too.

'Mulder, the nurse told me you were out of bed.'

'Yeah. Just looking out of the window.'

'You need to rest, Mulder. Get some sleep, or I'll have them give you something.'

'I can't Scully. I can't do anything right now. If I watch this stuff long enough I'll fall asleep.'

'Falling back on the old standbys?' Scully pulled the blankets up round him in an almost maternal gesture.

'Scully, I need you to tell me what happened. I only remember bits of it. Is Adam OK?'

From the patient, sorrowful look on Scully's face he guessed that she'd already told him before, maybe several times. 'Adam's dead, Mulder. I'm sorry.'

Mulder just nodded. 'Tell me what happened, Scully. I can't remember.'

'He was shot by a sniper. We thought Leigh was there alone but there must have been someone else we didn't know about. The woman, maybe.'

'I didn't know if I'd dreamed that bit,' Mulder said, in a distant little voice.

'Mulder, I'm sorry. I know he was a good friend. I'm so sorry.' She took his hand gently. He hardly noticed.

'Have they found the sniper?' He was asking the questions by rote. Words he was supposed to say, his mind on automatic pilot. From Scully's sigh he guessed that they'd been here before too.

'Oh Mulder. Mulder, you've had a long couple of days. Let it go. It's over. The case is over.'

'Over?' Mulder said blankly.

'You've got to face the fact that Adam had some kind of past in organised crime and it all caught up with him. He admitted as much. That's what this whole thing has been about. Drake and Lemarchand must have been mixed up in it too and Naomi Redburg was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'He wasn't like that,' Mulder protested helplessly. 'This is all wrong.'

Scully said gently, 'Mulder, it takes a lot of courage to break away from that kind of life. It's bred into the bone. It's linked with brotherhood and family and identity. He was strong enough to break away and he cared about you enough to come back and face what he was running from.'

'And it killed him.' He looked away from Scully back to the muted television, blinking to try to keep the tears back.

'I'm so sorry, Mulder,' Scully said again. She paused, as if uncertain whether to continue.

'Mulder, you know I told you that the ambulance he was in was stolen? They found it on some waste ground. It was burned out. The body was almost completely destroyed.'

'Has there been an autopsy yet?'

'There's hardly anything left to carry out an autopsy on, Mulder. Whoever it was, they did a very thorough job.'

'Why would they do that? Why would they burn the body?'

'I don't know, Mulder. Because they wanted his compete destruction? You know how these people work.'

Mulder struggled up to a sitting position.

'Scully, we were both taught in academy that the main reason to destroy a body is to hide identity. I don't think that was him.'

'Come on Mulder,' Scully said wearily. 'You know he couldn't have survived. You saw the shots he took. He was killed instantly.'

'Scully, I saw a cameraman with the firearms unit after Leigh was shot. I need to see the tape of what happened.'

'Mulder, that's not wise at the moment.'

'I need to see it.' His mind grasped for a reason she'd accept. 'For closure, Scully. I need to see what really happened.'

They watched the tape in silence on the hospital issue VCR, on the television screen on the wall above the bed. Men in black, moving into the warehouse guns ready, securing the building. Adam standing on the concrete by his car, looking unsure and alone.

'Look at him, Scully,' Mulder said softly. 'He takes his vest off. He's looking around for something. Lafayette tells him to get back in the van. He doesn't. He moved to the side there - there's no reason except that he'll be more in the light. He looks over at us, then at something past us - in the direction the shot came from. Then he turns his body so he's directly facing the assassin, in the line of fire. Do you see the look on his face at that moment? Anticipation, regret...'

'You're saying he set himself up to be assassinated. He organised it?'

'I think he organised it. I don't think he's dead.'

Scully shook her head. 'I knew this was a bad idea. Mulder, I checked the body myself. A shot through the brain and two through the heart. He died instantly.'

'But he wasn't beheaded. Don't you see, Scully? They have to be beheaded.'

'Mulder, I know how very much you want him not to be dead.' Scully said, very gently. 'But he died. People don't just come back to life. When someone you love dies it's very, very common not to be able to accept it at first.'

'I know about denial, Scully. I just don't think he's dead.'

Even as he said it he knew how pathetic it sounded.

Scully took his hand, and he almost couldn't bear the compassion in her eyes.

'Mulder, I'm going to recommend to Skinner that you have some time off for compulsory counselling. You watched your friend die in front of you. You're not going to be able to just get over this and you're not going to be able to rationalise it away.'

'I lost him for almost twenty years, Scully,' Mulder said, voice finally breaking. It's not fair that this happened. It isn't fair.'

'I know, Mulder.' Scully said gently, pulling him into her arms. 'I know. I know.'

'I really screwed this one up, Scully. I led them right to him. If he's dead, he's dead because of me.'

'Mulder, this isn't your fault.'

'I'm sorry, Scully. I'm just so tired of the people I love getting hurt.'

'Shh, Mulder,' Scully said soothingly. 'This time it was nothing to do with you. Whatever you did they'd have found him in the end.' She broke the embrace and lay him back onto the pillows, brushing his hair away from his forehead. 'We did some checking on Leigh, Mulder. He was very good and very expensive. With the money they were pouring into this they'd have found him eventually, one way or the other. Do you understand that?'

Mulder nodded. 'Yeah.' He appreciated what she was trying to do for him, at least.

'Then try to get some sleep, Mulder, I'll be just up the hall if you need me.'

'Scully I don't tell you this often enough, but I'm glad you're my partner,' Mulder said, voice rough with exhaustion. 'Skinner told me there were a lot of requests for you from other agents when the news went round you were going to join the section. I'm glad I'm the one who got lucky.'

'You got lucky. I got landed with the partner with the big nose and the attitude problem.' Scully said dryly.

'I do not have a big nose.' Mulder protested sleepily.

Scully smiled. 'Get some sleep, Mulder, or I will make them give you something. Lafayette wants to debrief you in the morning. He thinks this is all his fault too. I guess you two really do have a lot in common.'

'G'night, Scully.'

'Sleep well, Mulder. I'll see you in the morning.'

Mulder lay back, but sleep eluded him. The numbness had left him. Now he just felt lousy. He knew what he'd said to Scully had sounded insane. Lucky she was used to it by now. Anybody else would have taken his gun instead of recommending counselling. His mobile rang from the bedside table, and he picked it up almost automatically, glad of the distraction.

'Mulder.'

A crackle, as if from a badly made tape.

He heard someone gasp - an agonised, muffled, pain filled gasp. The noise of a vehicle.

'Who is this? Who are you?'

The vehicle stopped. Footsteps. The sound of a van door being opened and closed. A zipper being pulled.

'Sacre bleu! Ee is alive!'

'Hah hah Amanda. Very funny...'

'Well? What happened?'

'As far as I know it all went as planned. Things got kind of quiet after Duncan shot me but you know how that is. Anyway I thought you were there.'

'No, I missed all the fun. Wouldn't have done for me to scare anybody off. Are you about ready to go?'

'Yeah. Who he?'

'That's the late, mostly lamented Adam Pierson.'

He listened to the rest in silence, right up until the man called Joe's comment on how edgy the wiring made him, when the tape cut off abruptly. The call was cut off just as abruptly a second later. The thought of organising a trace had not occurred to him. There was no room for any thought at all in the turmoil of emotions. Shock first, then betrayal and fury, then disbelief. *He did this for me? How could he do this to me?* For a few moments he just sat there, unable to think or move, then with shaking hands punched another number into the phone.

'Lone Gunmen.'

Even with the voice disguised there was only one person the clipped accent could have belonged to.

'Byers, it's Mulder.'

'You sound upset, Mulder. Everything OK?'

'No. Byers, someone called me on my mobile a few minutes ago. I need to know who.'

'I'll get Langly on it. We'll call you back. Usual number?'

'Yeah. Can you ask him to do it now? This is important.'

'Mulder, what's wrong?'

'Byers, just do this for me.'

'Ok, Mulder,' Byers said calmly. 'We'll call you back as soon as we find out. Just hang in there.'

He must have sounded more upset than he thought. It was only when he glanced up and saw his reflection in the mirror over the sink that he realised that his face was wet with tears.

He kept the cellphone in his hand, but he had no idea how long it was before it rang again.

'Mulder?'

'Yeah. Who called me, Langly?'

'Nobody called you, Mulder. Nobody's made a call to your number in the last four hours.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah, Mulder. I'm sure. There's no record of a call being received.'

'Is there any way someone could have called me without it appearing on the phone company records?'

There was a moment's silence from the other end of the line.

'They didn't just erase the record, Mulder, it never appeared in the first place. It would take some expert hacking, good planning, inside knowledge and a lot of expensive equipment. It's possible, but I couldn't have swung it.'

'Can you find out if someone else did?'

'Not unless you could tell me exactly who they were, Mulder. If someone was good enough to hack into your mobile they're going to be just as good at covering their tracks.'

'But it is possible that I was called?'

'Mulder, if you say you got a call, you got a call,' Langly said. 'What's wrong?'

'Not on this line,' Mulder said. 'I'll see you when I get back to the States.'

He rang off before his friend could say anything further.

After a couple of hours of wretched tossing and turning they did give him something to help him sleep. Whatever it was knocked him straight out and left him feeling slow and disoriented when he woke late the next morning. By the time Lafayette came by to debrief him he had a pounding headache and had already had two surly arguments with the nurse about not being allowed to take a shower yet. Lafayette was less immaculate than usual. It didn't look as if he'd slept at all.

'Agent Mulder. How do you feel this morning?'

Mulder made a face. 'Lousy. Is there any news?'

'I think that Agent Scully told you last night that we recovered the ambulance, and a body.'

'What about the sniper?'

'Nothing. We've circulated the woman's description to the ports and airports. So far there haven't been any sightings.'

'There's something I need to know. Adam was wired, wasn't he?'

'Yes, Agent Mulder. In these situations that's official policy.'

'But after I was recovered, you stopped recording.'

'Yes. We switched the equipment off. There was no point in continuing. In any case, he was taken out of the receiver's range when he was driven away.'

'Thanks. That's all I wanted to know.'

Lafayette nodded. 'Agent Mulder, I want you to know that I feel a great deal of responsibility for what happened. I'm sorry. I failed you both. I could have protected him better than I did.'

'No, you couldn't.' Mulder said, shaking his head. 'There wasn't anything else you could have done. He put himself in the line of fire. He took the vest off himself. You ordered him to safety and he ignored you. It wasn't your fault.'

'You say that almost as if you think he knew there would be another assassin.' Lafayette said slowly.

'I think he did. You saw the tape. He lined himself up for the shot that killed him.'

'Why would he do that?' Lafayette asked, his brow furrowed.

'I don't know,' Mulder said wretchedly.

Lafayette said, 'Agent Mulder, perhaps you have also been thinking about the other deaths. Not Mademoiselle Redburg, but the others. Men and women who did not age, all beheaded. These are not gangland killings. There is more to it than that.'

'Go on,' Mulder said guardedly.

'The autopsy indicated that the body in the ambulance was probably not Adam Pierson's.' Lafayette said. 'Which was as I suspected. We both know that the most common reason to destroy a body is to conceal its identity and that the second is to conceal the cause of death. There were some discrepancies in the type of ammunition found in the body, some indications that whoever it was died by drowning and with high levels of alcohol in his bloodstream. Our people have put the time of death at sometime around twenty-four hours before the body was burned.'

Mulder looked at him with warring suspicion, disbelief and hope.

'You think he's still alive too?'

Lafayette nodded and frowned into his coffee. 'I'm not sure what to think, Agent Mulder. There are too many things about this case that do not make me happy. I think Pierson knew how to fight. He was no stranger to weapons. He was not afraid of guns or of armed men. And, as you say, he gave himself to the second assassin far too easily. He implied that he had once been involved with organised crime, but I do not believe he was that kind of man.'

'No. He wasn't,' Mulder said.

'It has always bothered me that many of the bodies found beheaded had partially healed wounds that had not been noticed by their families or mentioned to their friends,' Lafayette continued. 'But what if these wounds did not exist before the time of the killings?'

'You think that these might be injuries inflicted in the fights that led to their deaths,' Mulder said slowly, finishing the thought. 'Injuries that somehow took minutes rather than weeks to heal.' He found himself looking at Lafayette with new respect. That particular explanation hadn't occurred to him.

Lafayette nodded. 'Yes, Agent Mulder. That is my theory. Maybe these are people with such an ability to heal themselves that beheading is the only way to kill them. Maybe that is why they do not grow old. Maybe even a bullet through the brain would not be enough to kill such a man.'

Mulder bent his head and ran his hands through his hair. 'Someone called me and played the tape of what happened in the van after it was taken. Adam was alive. I heard him come back to life. He was speaking to a woman called Amanda and later a man called Joe. They mentioned someone called Duncan as the man who had shot Adam. They planned the shooting between them.'

'Who was the caller?' Lafayette asked, gently curious.

'I don't know. All he did was play me the tape. I tried to find out where the call came from but there wasn't any record of it. I thought maybe Scully was right.' His voice grew strained. 'That I was in shock and denial and I'd created a scenario in my own mind where Adam somehow survived.'

Lafayette shook his head. 'Amanda, Joe and Duncan all exist, Agent Mulder. Duncan MacLeod we have already discussed. He is the main suspect in a number of recent beheadings. Amanda Darieux is a professional jewel thief and MacLeod's occasional lover. Joe Dawson is MacLeod's close friend, and Pierson's too, it appears. When Leigh threatened Dawson, Pierson responded with a fury that I would not have believed from him unless I had heard it myself.'

'What do you think really happened?'

'Our investigations into Leigh's background have told us nothing,' Lafayette said, running a hand through his blond hair. 'He is a hired killer, as simple as that. A very expensive hired killer, but hired nonetheless. We have nothing to explain why his employers wanted Pierson dead.'

'What if these people are divided into warring factions?' Mulder suggested, frowning as he thought through the possibilities. 'Maybe Adam belonged to one of them and left to join this MacLeod instead.'

'It's possible, Agent Mulder. I would argue that too many of the people who have died have been loners with no apparent connection to one another for that to be true. Also that Pierson did not know who was hunting him.' He spread his hands. 'But anything we come up with will be speculation. MacLeod won't talk, of that I'm certain, and if Pierson is alive he will have taken measures to hide himself.'

'So what do we know?' Mulder said speculatively. 'First of all a group of people were hunting Adam down. Leigh spoke of more than one employer.'

'There were at least two others. The woman in the car with Leigh and the man who killed Drake,' Lafayette mused.

'And Adam had no idea who they were,' Mulder said.

'Or why they were after him. He asked Leigh. Leigh said that he didn't know.'

Mulder stood and began to pace up and down the narrow room.

'The last place Adam was positively identified by these people was Maine in 1979 and they were only given that information a month or two ago by Jacques Lemarchand. They didn't know Adam's name, only that he was one of the people there at the time, which is why they went through as many of the survivors as they could trying to find him.'

'Naomi, Drake and Lemarchand.' Lafayette noted.

'At least two others from the camp have vanished in suspicious circumstances within the last few years,' Mulder mused. 'Skinner's been doing some checking. There's still no trace anywhere of either Rebecca Kirkwood or Max Donnelly.'

'Do you think those disappearances were associated with this case?'

'No. Whoever was looking for Adam only heard about the camp a few months ago, when they found Jacques. Those disappearances predate that.'

'Then you think that this was to do with their lifestyle?' Lafayette asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mulder nodded. 'I think these people kill each other as a way of life, one to one, with swords. They're not fights. They're duels. I just can't explain why.'

'Perhaps it is a compulsion.' Lafayette suggested. 'Some form of mental illness that accompanies this longevity. Psychotic episodes, perhaps.'

'But then why would they only attack each other? Maybe there are exceptions, but the majority of the people who were killed were voluntary participants in the duels that killed them.'

Lafayette sighed. 'Until we have more evidence any speculation will be baseless.'

'But for whatever motive, a group of these people decided to hunt Adam Pierson down. They went through the others who were there trying to get more information. Then they found me, and I was their trump card. If anyone could track him down, it was going to be the guy who had the last contact with him. I had all the resources of the FBI and the Surete at my disposal. I led them straight to him.'

'You had no way of knowing.'

'They followed the two of us to his apartment last night, then waited till we went out separate ways in the morning,' Mulder continued, as if he hadn't heard. 'Joe Dawson told Scully that Adam was followed, but he saw them and shook them off. He realised what had happened and decided discretion was the better part of valour. He went into hiding. That's when they decided to take me instead.'

'He could have stayed in hiding, Agent Mulder. I think this is a man who knows how to run and hide. What he did was for your safety. You must have been close friends.'

'Yes,' Mulder said sadly.

'Will you try to find him?'

'There's not much to go on. He mentioned spending some time in the States.'

'So you believe he's gone to America?'

'I don't know. It would be a place to start.'

'I'll run some checks at the airports. Will you involve the FBI?'

'Skinner's going to think I've finally lost it if I send him a 302 asking for permission to track down a guy who was shot fatally three times in front of twenty police witnesses. Then there's the fact that if Adam realises someone's after him he'll just vanish again. I can't take that risk. I have to do this alone.'

'If I discover anything else about the people who hired Leigh, I'll pass on the information.'

Mulder nodded. 'If I discover whatever the hell's going on, I'll let you know.'

'I'd appreciate that, Agent Mulder,' Lafayette said, with just the barest trace of a smile. 'When are you flying out?'

'They wanted me under observation for at least twenty-four hours but Scully talked them out of it. She booked our flight back for this evening. Eight pm.'

'Call me and I'll drive you to the airport. I hope that I'll meet you and Agent Scully again, Agent Mulder.'

'Don't worry,' Mulder said. 'I'll be in touch.'

***

Georgia de Milly raised her gloved hand to the deep blue skies, and a smile of pleasure crossed her tanned, freckled face as her falcon returned to her in a rush of air and wings and trailing jesses. She hooded the bird, then moved gracefully back along the scrubby, stony path that led up the hillside. Perhaps she should have worn skirts for the hunt, but she found women's clothes constricting. Jeans and boots gave her more freedom. Gilles did not like that, but Gilles was not here. Besides, she had learned always to be ready to fight, even in this place.

She smiled at the massively built man who held both their horses, waiting patiently for her, his own clothing as casual as hers.

'Poor hunting today, Julian,' she said cheerfully.

'I'm sorry, my lady. But the day has been fair.'

'Fair indeed. Do you regret that this will end one day, Julian?'

'It is God's will,' Julian said simply. Georgia pushed an errant lock of curly brown hair behind her ear, and looked up at him, narrowing her gold-green eyes against the sun.

'What did you think of the world outside the island, Julian?'

'I did not like it at all, my lady,' Julian said. She knew he would not lie to her. He had not lied to her in nine centuries.

'Why, Julian?' Georgia asked curiously. They had not spoken much of his journey to France.

'I do not like the noise, my lady. There are too many things I don't understand now. I don't like driving cars. I don't like aeroplanes. I don't like staying in hotels. I don't like the shops. The money isn't real any more - no gold or silver. There are too many things to remember. Not to touch things with my fingers. To look away when I see the cameras.' He paused and looked down, his earnest face reddening. 'I know you were angry with me because of the photographs, my lady. I thought I did well in bringing them. You were looking for pictures before.'

'I know you meant well,' Georgia said soothingly. 'It's of no matter, Julian, and perhaps it was not all to the worst. You fought well against Drake. It must have been a good fight.'

'I was glad,' Julian said awkwardly. 'I thought... I have only fought against you and Richard and Anne for many years now. I thought that I would not be good enough.'

'How could you not be?' Georgia said. She reached up impulsively and patted his cheek. 'You are a great warrior, Julian. None can stand against you.'

'All my victory is yours, my lady.'

Georgia nodded, scarcely hearing the words, taking them as her due. 'Not mine, Julian. Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam. (1)'

Julian bowed his head again. 'Yes, my lady.'

Georgia turned to look out over the Mediterranean. The waters rippled under the spring sun, from blue to green to purple. In the distance she could see the coast of Syria, a faint, dark line on the horizon. She sighed. It had been a long time since she had ridden through those hills.

'The harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels (2),' she said softly, trying the words again. They were like jewels, shining and true. The harvest would be very soon. One more perfect summer remained to them. Then exile would end. But how fast it had gone...

Her thoughts were shattered by the insistent noise of her beeper. She unhooked it from her belt and read the scrolling message, shading the LCD screen with her hand.

'Anne is returning.'

'Has she found him?'

Georgia found herself smiling at his simple faith, his certainty that she already knew.

'I don't know, Julian. Richard's message only said that the helicopter had crossed back into our airspace.'

'We should return and make ready.'

She let him help her mount her horse, although she did not need his help.

'Timothy. Come,' she called.

The wolfhound that had been lying in the shadows, tongue lolling, scrambled to his feet.

'All your hounds have been called Timothy,' Julian said.

'Timothy was my first hound. I was just a girl. I remember my father saying that it was not fitting for a girl to have a hunting hound. And how my mother laughed and told him that the woman of de Milly did as they wished, and that this was the first and least of the arguments we would have, and that he should let me have the hound.'

'I cannot remember when I was a boy.'

He sounded sad. Georgia looked over at him with something like regret in her eyes.

'I don't like this,' Julian said suddenly.

'What, Julian?'

'This virus. This killing from a distance. Better to hold your sword in your hand. To look into your enemy's eyes as you strike.'

'For five hundred years, we've lived without even that. No death, no killing.'

'Such is God's will,' Julian agreed. 'But I've dreamed of the day when we would fight again.'

'Yes.' Georgia agreed softly, radiantly. 'So have I. So have I.'

In the distance they both heard the noise of the approaching helicopter. Georgia stood in her saddle, trying to see it against the glare of the sun.

'Do you think Gilles will let me have one?' Julian asked. 'A hound, I mean, like Timothy?'

She smiled down at him. 'I'll ask him, Julian.'

The sound of the helicopter grew nearer, and filled the sky. Georgia held her horse still as the animal shifted nervously beneath her, and soothed the nervous falcon. Julian drew his sword and raised it to the sky in salute as it neared them, passed over them, a dark bird rising from the sea.

(1) Templar motto: Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy Name be the glory.

(2) "the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels" (Mtt.13:39)

"For the Lord himself shall descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive, and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air; and so shall we ever be with the Lord."

[1 Thessalonians 4:16-17]


End file.
